


Synchronicity

by Dododolenz (usedusernames), usedusernames



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, Music RPF, The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Blowjobs, Consent Issues, Loss of Virginity, M/M, RPS - Freeform, Recreational Drug Use, References to Depression, References to the Beatles, Sex, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, implied/referenced suicide (not of anyone in or related to the band)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 103,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedusernames/pseuds/Dododolenz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedusernames/pseuds/usedusernames
Summary: Mike and Micky have many things in common, even if it doesn't always seem like it. One of these things is Texas.It's what they call, "Meaningful coincidences," Peter says, "Synchronicity, as Jung would call it. It’s Karma. These coincidences are guiding you, Michael. The universe is saying you’re on the right path. Think of how astronomical it is, to be in a band with men you’d never met, and to share a birthday with one and such strong familial ties to Texas with another.”No one but Peter buys into 'synchronicity', but over the course of a tour, it gets easier to believe.





	1. California

There were simple rules of the world, taught to school children year after year. Or maybe not even taught; ingrained, somehow. There were things that were inherently known. Respect your elders. Always say your Ps and Qs. Get home before dark. Social laws with few exceptions.

For Micky Dolenz, there was something else that came just as naturally. That was instilled in him almost since birth. 

He fell in love with everyone he met.

Of course, there were exceptions to the rule—just like there were exceptions to all rules. But by and large it was less if and more how much. If he met someone who was nice, who he respected, he fell at least a little bit in love with them.

He was in love with all of the other Monkees, at least a little. He and Davy knew it wasn’t music in the classical sort of sense. They knew it was business first, acting second, music third. Davy wasn’t his best friend, maybe, but he was up there, because Davy Knew. Capital-letters Knew. He knew the ins and outs and practicalities of it all. The paperwork, the long hours, the rejection as real as romantic heartbreak. And he knew the dark, sordid little things that grown men tried to keep under wraps when it came to the women and children on set. Davy knew why barely two years into it he’d been pulled from it for his own good. And Davy knew why he crawled back to it despite all good sense saying to give it up and become an architect. 

And Davy was cute. Big brown doe eyes, big kissing lips. Short, but cute. He could put Davy in his pocket and just carry him around. Funny, too. Mean, but charismatic. Naturally charismatic at that—Micky had his own charisma, but it was store-bought rather than home-grown the way Davy’s was. He’d honed it through theater classes and catching on to what got eye-rolls or chuckles. He was almost always putting on—not much, but a little, just to be liked better. Davy was who he was; he was born with confidence and charisma followed. 

He was more than a little in love with Davy.

That was okay, though. Expected, even. Everyone was in love with Davy. He could go and kiss Davy right on those big lips of his and not get a single word about it. Except from Davy himself, who would probably stand up on tip-toes and punch him dead between the eyes.

He was a little in love with Peter, too.

Peter was just good at things. He was very smart and very nice. Most of the time, anyway. Peter knew politics. Pete seemed to get something out of them, too, which he’d always had trouble with. Peter could go on and on about the importance of rioting and picketing and civil disobedience. And he could make it make sense. Micky almost felt compelled when he listened to Peter, to be more of a social activist. To take more things to heart. They were both very emotional in their way, but those sorts of things never stabbed him the way they did Peter.

He’d seen his share of injustices. Firsthand, secondhand, thirdhand. But he was more insulated than most were. Luckier, maybe, though it rankled him a bit to contribute everything to luck when his father had worked so hard at what he’d built that it had killed him. Luck for him, though, maybe, even if not for his parents. He had seen politics get swayed with money. With different kinds of action than rioting. The bureaucratic kind of action that Peter flared his nostrils at and took a tone with. 

He loved Peter’s passion, anyway. Loved the kindness. Loved his intelligence and musical talent. He rolled his eyes and groaned at Peter’s one-track mind often, but that didn’t mean he didn’t admire it.

Mike, though.

He was head-over-heels in love with Mike. Head-over-heels-over-head-over-heels in love, tumbling down the hill like Jack and Jill in love. Puppy dog in love. He fell in love with Mike the second he talked to him. Mike was all the things he loved about everyone else, and more on top of it. 

Mike knew things that he didn’t. Street smarts, he supposed was what Mike had. He didn’t have street smarts, himself. Nor did any of the other guys, really, but he was lacking them especially, and Mike made up for all of them. Mike was cagey, but he was rarely a liar. It was fascinating, really, how Mike could be so honest and still have Micky guessing at what he meant.

He was like that when he was joking, too. Mike was funny, one of the funniest guys Micky had ever met, and a lot of it had to do with the fact Mike had a fantastic poker face. He could keep a joke going until Micky finally decided to look him straight in the eye to call him out. The moment Micky would start to say something, he’d see the twinkle in Mike’s eye and he would fall to pieces.

Or, sometimes, he could keep it going even past that. If Mike had half a mind to, he could keep it going straight to the point where Micky felt himself getting catty. Most of the time it didn’t go that far, and when it did Mike would most often sell himself out by saying outright that he was only kidding. Micky was a good rain stick for offense, in that if Micky started to get offended, Mike knew that most everyone in the room had been at the end of their ropes with him for a while.

Somehow Mike being able to string him along just as far as he wanted made it all the funnier in Micky’s mind.

And Mike was talented. Not only that, but he wasn’t at all stingy with it the way most people were in Hollywood. Of course, Mike wasn’t the traditional Hollywood sort in any sense, but it was still a surprise; he was altruistic with his teaching. When he encouraged Micky to write music, it wasn’t for the band. It wasn’t for the sales. It most definitely wasn’t for the TV show. It was for the music, the all-encompassing idea of music. It was about the contribution any new song brought to the catalog of music the world over. Mike could be stingy, even greedy, about some things. But he never hogged his talent, and he always gave time and praise when it came to fostering others’.

He was handsome, too. Even Davy was a little jealous of his looks. His eyes were warm but sharp, shrewd. His hair was darker than you saw on most people naturally. He made Micky feel a little better about being skinny, too; Mike was skinny, and it suited him. 

Micky was deeply in love with Mike inside and outside, and he wasn’t bothered by it at all. He was in love with all of the Monkees at least a little. He was in love with almost all of the cast and crew for the show, at least a little. He was, in fact, in love with people he’d never met.

So he’d never planned on saying anything to Mike. 

That was entirely an accident. 

1967

Micky went to Texas every year over the summer when he was growing up, so that he could see his grandparents. For a while he saw his uncle there, too, but he didn’t have that firm of a grip on when Uncle Jack moved to California. He didn’t know if it was just incidental, that he frequently saw him in Texas. He’d seen him frequently in California, too, and was probably ten or so before he had real memories of going to his house.

Mostly the trips only lasted a week or two. Long enough to get a good healthy, heaping dose of grandparental love, and long enough for it to be worth the long, long drive. Once the trip had been much longer than that—when his mother briefly left his father and took him back to live with her parents. He was very young, then, and though he remembered his mother crying the entire car ride there, he only knew the reason behind it a little after his father died. And even then, it wasn’t through sleuthing. His mother just very rarely ever lied to him.

He always ended up getting a darker tan in Texas than he ever did in California. “I was really into baseball when I was a kid,” he was saying. “I’d always bring my ball and glove. My parents wouldn’t let me bring my bat anywhere near the car, after I took out one of our taillights—”

“On purpose?” Davy asked. His tone was a little funny, riding the tightrope between a serious question and feeling at making an outlandish sort of joke of Micky being a hoodlum.

Micky frowned. “No, of course not.”

He was always a little sensitive about his childhood, protective like it was a child in and of itself.

“Well _I_ don’t know,” Davy said, bringing his hands to his chest, his eyebrows lifting high up under his hair. He took the suggestion even further, to make it silly enough Micky couldn’t be upset at it, “Look at your face. You’re a regular thug, with a face like that. They were calling you Babyface Dolenz, an’ it wasn’t because you were eight years old.”

“Babyface Micky Dolenz,” Mike piled on, taking on his announcer voice, which wasn’t all that different from his regular voice, but they knew the difference, “Breaking mirrors, taillights, and eardrums since 1945.”

Micky pursed his face up and turned nice and catty, leaning in and shaking his head at them like a scolding mother. “I haven’t broken a single mirror since**_ puberty_**, thank you _very **much**_.”

“We cover them with blankets now,” Peter said serenely, soft enough that they could’ve just carried on without him.

But Micky wheeled on him with righteous indignation. “A sneak attack from the Torkmeister!” he yelled. Peter usually waited until the end to get his digs in—he didn’t do banter the same way the rest of them leaned towards, which made when he did either real clunkers or real winners. He gave Peter a bit of a shove and Peter indulged him by giving him one back. Even if it was only one-handed, a spliff in his other. They used to roughhouse quite a bit more, but Peter was starting to get caught up more in the nonviolence side of things and would sometimes scold him and Davy now for solving their fights with…well, fights. What Peter said made some sense, too, though it was quite a bit easier to pick a winner by seeing who could choke out who first.

Still, Micky wound back down a little before Peter could get legitimately bothered. If Peter got bothered, Mike would get bothered, and Davy would get bothered, and then he would get bothered. They were like dominoes, sometimes. Or maybe they were, truly, like a barrel of monkeys, all linked arm-in-arm. “As I was _saying_, Jones,” he said, turning to give Davy an overly-severe look that made Davy giggle a little, and in turn made him giggle a little—Monkees, arm-in-arm—“No, I didn’t break my parents’ taillight on purpose. But baseball is a team sport, and I was playing alone in my driveway. And I happened to miss the ball.” 

Peter and Davy glanced at each other, trying to decide if they had a quip to weigh in on this. They looked at Mike, too, but Mike tended to miss sidelong glances if he were at all focused, and he was watching Micky.

“Bert ‘n’ Bob won’t let you have a bat now, neither,” Mike said, “We don’t have Keith Moon-isms in our budget.”

Micky considered this. “I’ll break my piggy bank, first,” he decided. “They can pay the Marriott with my allowance.”

He sort of wanted to ask if they really thought that he’d someday go wild and wreck all their rooms. But he knew better than to fall down the rabbit hole of working out the kinks of his professional perception. He did that enough with his family, under the guise of doing it with his management; he took it a little too personal, for it to be ‘management’ only. So instead he reached and grabbed the joint that he figured had been in Peter’s hand a little too long. Or at least out of his own hand for too long, since he hadn’t really been watching.

He took a pull and passed it to Mike.

The space was smoky, but it was too large and ventilated to really be considered ‘hotboxing’ this go around. Micky only felt a little warm and comfy, and since he got hit like a ton of bricks when it came to indulgences, he wondered how much the rest of the guys were feeling. “What’re you planning to do in Texas, Mike?” he asked, plopping onto the ground.

“Oh. Sing, I s’pose.”

“Har-har.”

“Eat, sleep, drink…” Mike would’ve left it at that, but he had the hunch Micky might actually get surly over it. Micky didn’t pick fights like Davy and Peter for the most part, and he’d get over it all on his own in an hour. But in the middle of it he’d be petty and confusing, and Mike liked to avoid things he didn’t understand. “I know a good place to get a burger. I’ll take you, if we got time.”

Micky laughed. “I know how far outta your way you’ll go for food you like. Pete and Davy will be in Washington and we’ll still have ketchup on our fingers.” He licked his fingers clean for emphasis. “No thanks.”

Mike shrugged, having expected that answer.

“It’s amazing,” Peter weighed in, “Really remarkable, that you both spent so much time there, before you became a Monkee. Amazing— like how you and Davy have the same birthday.” He looked to Mike, then. His voice was warm and had a smile in it.

“Yeah, Peter. They got a name for that,” Mike replied.

Peter’s face brightened even further. “Oh?” 

“Yep— Oh, yeah. That, Pete, is what they call ‘a coincidence’.”

Mike’s voice was very dry. Micky ducked his head and snickered, more to lean into his laughter than to hide it. Peter didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm— he didn’t, sometimes. Wasn’t always able to read his audience. But Micky didn’t know if that was the case when it came to Mike; with Mike, it almost seemed intentional when Peter misunderstood him. 

Peter broke into a large grin, taking it as a sincere conversation rather than a jab. “Yes, coincidences. _Meaningful_ coincidences. Synchronicity, as Jung would call it. It’s Karma. These coincidences are guiding you, Michael. The universe is saying you’re on the right path. Think of how astronomical it is, to be in a band with men you’d never met, and to share a birthday with one and such strong familial ties to Texas with another.”

Micky tipped his head a bit, thoughtful to it. Then he tipped his body. Then he laid back on the floor. He stared up at the ceiling.

“You tapping out?” Davy asked, jostling Micky’s leg a bit. It was enough to make Micky remember to uncross them and stretch his legs to lay completely flat.

He often laid down when he was getting high. Especially when it was one of those highs where people started talking about deep things instead of just giggling. And this wasn’t even a good high, just something to take the edge off.

So Davy was probably only asking to try and get him to actually get up and go someplace with him, where they could enjoy it better.

“I’m thinking,” Micky said, closing his eyes. “I’m trying to do math.”

In theory he was. He liked math, and liked the idea of actually figuring out the odds of the things Peter was talking about. But when he thought of numbers he saw colors dancing behind his eyelids to some old blues music he liked but couldn’t remember the name of.

“Don’t ‘urt yourself,” Davy said, accent thick. He tapped Micky on the forehead for emphasis decidedly harder than most would have.

“All right, then. A _big_ coincidence,” Mike was saying. His voice was getting an edge.

Micky sighed. Mike and Peter were too alike in the ways that mattered and too different in the ways that didn’t for them to get on for long—thick like thieves one moment, at each others’ throats the next. He didn’t even think what they were talking about even mattered; they were both just in the mood to bicker.

Micky didn’t believe in auras or chakras or things like that the way Peter did, but people definitely put out energy. Their energy was filling his lungs more than the smoke was.

“I know you believe in things bigger than yourself, Michael. Why is it so hard for you to think that this is—“ Peter was saying, voice switching tracks from ‘hippy’ to ‘scolding school teacher’ quick as a shot. 

Micky tuned them back out. He opened his eyes and looked at Davy.

“I got some math for you,” Davy said.

It took Micky a second to get back to their conversation from a moment before. He’d let that thread go and had to find the ball of yarn again. A beat, then: “Oh, yeah?”

Davy nodded and hummed as he got up from the floor. “You and me, plus two cute chicks.”

“Cute ones? Hmm. I dunno. I was in the mood for ‘homely’, myself….” 

“Don’t I always steer those ones your way?” Davy returned, chipper.

“You got me there.” 

They walked together outside, the background noise of Mike and Peter’s conversation getting quieter until it was finally shut away. It was easier to walk away when they got going, mostly because the fight would start as one thing and go into something else.

Micky blinked hard. It was bad enough adjusting to the light, but not wearing his glasses always made the transition harder— he almost forgot about the blurriness in a tiny room.

“Those guys drive me batty,” Davy informed. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, then a cigarette rather than a joint. He took a puff and offered it to Micky just to be polite. Smoking made Micky’s lungs itch in a way marijuana didn’t, and as expected he turned it down.

“That’s not a drive, babe. That’s a_ stroll._”

“You drive me batty, too.”

“Not even a stroll around the block. Maybe through this parking lot. A little, itty, bitty, tiny stroll even on your little legs—” Micky carried on. His voice was taking on an air to it, like a standup comedian or a radio announcer, getting one of those phony accents Davy had never actually heard anywhere in America.

“See ‘ow far my little leg will go up your ass,” Davy muttered, no heat at all.

Micky laughed. “Ooh, _kinky_!”

Davy slapped him one. They tussled a moment, but it went nowhere. Davy wasn’t letting up on his cigarette since he’d just lit it, and though he knew he wouldn’t get burnt on purpose, Micky was starting to like his face enough not to be too risky with it.

When they stopped fighting, they stepped back to look at each other.

“So, beer?”

“Lead the way.”


	2. Summer 1967: California

It wasn’t often he and Davy both struck out. They’d spent a collective lifetime pitching themselves to strangers through interviews, auditions, informal chats with men in power. Half of showbiz was marketing yourself as a good prospect. That this was a transferrable skill to getting laid by pretty girls they just met was a perk of the job, often made easier by being recognizable through work. That was more than what most had going for them.

They were good wingmen, too. They were both conversational enough and direct enough to usually pick out why a girl they were chatting up was rebuffing them, and more often than not they could bring in the other to be the closer. Oh, you’re looking for someone taller? Let me introduce you to my friend, Micky Dolenz. Oh, you like the more traditional pretty-boy type? I’ve got just the man for you; his name is Davy Jones.

This time around luck conspired against them: The only girls in the bar they went to recognized them— a little laugh and—“My eight-year-old sister likes your music.” That was it. A true stab to the heart. Micky had tried to overcome this gap by making a connection. He had a sister about that age, too! But all the girls were set on it once they got started, and after a few jabs the girls left for better prospects.

He and Davy went home together instead.

They laid together in Davy’s bed, side-by-side.

They didn’t do anything indecent.

Micky offered when Davy wouldn’t stop complaining about not getting any, “Hi, Davy! My name’s Able. As in ready, willing, and—” grabbing Davy’s hand between both of his own and shaking it enthusiastically.

He didn’t mean it, though he was tipsy enough that if Davy had taken him up on it, he wouldn’t have chickened out. Davy took it how it was meant, flipped him off, and called him a flat-faced motherfucker under his breath. Or maybe it was ‘cocksucker’. Micky couldn’t hear it that clearly, but he knew it was crude. Either way, a second later, Davy’s sour face had lifted a bit, and he added, “If you were _that_ willing, you’d be shaking something other’n my hand.”

Micky laughed and, happily, they stopped talking about how poorly the night had gone. He’d rather hang around Davy’s place for a bit, but not if Davy was going to be a pain in the ass about something that wouldn’t matter tomorrow.

“Are you ready to go on tour again?” Micky asked, rolling over onto his stomach. He used his arms as a pillow and gazed at Davy. It all at once felt like a sleepover. He’d missed out on his fair share of those as a kid, from being sick and from being on TV. It felt like he’d nestled down into a sleeping bag, cocooned warm and tight and safe. He knew Davy well enough to know he’d be hearing about it for the rest of his life if he mentioned it any way but jokingly. It was a nice feeling he wasn’t willing to have teased apart, so he kept it to himself.

Davy shrugged. “I’m used to touring. I’m used to not knowing what time it is—what day of the week it is, for that matter. But I can tell you this little dog and pony show’s not going to last if we can’t figure something out. The guys up top want the money the guys down here are making them, the guys down here want the power the guys up top’ve got.”

“But these are the dogs and ponies you hitched your wagon to.”

“I signed a contract. I’m good at what I do, and I’ll do it. You know that.”

Micky did. They’d discussed it plenty of times already.

Feeling a little charitable, Micky said, “Mike has some good ideas.”

Davy bristled at Mike’s name.

“Bully for him. So does Peter. So did Don Kirshner. So do me and you. Good ideas are a dime a dozen. You want it to get somewhere, you need to do something other than swing your dick around and say how good your ideas are. You and I, we could get somewhere with our ideas because we know when to give up a piece of ‘em.”

“Our dicks?” Micky asked. “Sure. I wanted to give a piece of ‘em up tonight, even.”

He hoped that wouldn’t get Davy started again. When Davy lost at something, Micky could spend the whole night lecturing the guy on the art of being a good loser.

Davy looked him up and down. “Mate, looking the way you do, you’ll need to start paying. Lucky for you, you can’t swing a cat in Los Angeles without hitting a prostitute.”

“Oh, was that the yowling I heard last time you took a walk down Sunset Strip?” Micky mimicked a screeching cat for what Davy considered an ungodly amount of time, though it was only really a few seconds.

Davy gave him nothing to feed from, which meant Micky eventually stopped that line of humor. Davy considered himself lucky that Micky was so very starved for audience reaction.

Instead Micky went serious. “You said we have good ideas. And we could make something happen.” He shifted uneasily. “You want us to press…?”

He couldn’t figure out how to finish, but Davy knew what he was getting at, and said a swift, “No.” He paused, then said, “Yes, if you think it matters. I might even back _you_ because I know _you_ aren’t a certified lunatic like the rest of them.”

Micky chuckled. “I’ve been called a loony a lot,” he mused, sort of drifting off the point. It did feel good to think that Davy would at least consider supporting any artistic endeavors he had. He had a few, truth be told. Davy was right, though. He was willing to let his go, for the sake of being gainfully employed.

“You are a loony,” Davy confirmed. “But those fellas ought to be put in jackets and have coat hangers shoved up their noses. You—you can pop your pills and the nice lads in white will give you a cuppa in the yard in the afternoon. You’re a reliable loony.”

“That sounds nice,” Micky laughed a little. He liked the thought of just sitting in the sun drinking some tea. He had a little more freedom around California than he did other places; L.A. was absolutely sick with celebrities which in a weird way afforded him some privacy, but that wasn’t true of the places they’d be going soon. He got a little further off-track and said, “I’m going to miss sleeping.”

They’d had a break between the first tour and this one, but the time had flown fast. He knew he couldn’t complain about it. At least, he knew he shouldn’t. Bands often spent their lives touring, touring, touring. But they weren’t a typical band, no matter how much Mike and Peter wanted them to be. He’d rather cut down on the shows and focus on the _show_, singular. Or maybe the other way around. He could appreciate that being rock stars had more longevity than being TV stars would have, assuming he didn’t get hooked on blow and die before he turned thirty. TV shows either ended the second they started or lasted so long you were typecast. Or both, considering he could probably still wrangle an audition to be a cute little ten-year-old, courtesy of _Circus Boy_.

Davy checked his watch.

He criticized, “It’s three A.M. You won’t miss it that much. You never do it now.”

Micky hummed at that. It wasn’t like he was wrong. He hadn’t had a good sleep schedule since high school, maybe.

“So close… Your… _Eyes,_” Davy said, a clearer hint this time. He spoke very deliberately, eyes big, talking like he was explaining to a toddler. He had to do this often with Micky. It was even odds to whether he’d get back a deer-in-the-headlights look or Micky would actually respond properly. “You’re lucky you’ve such a nice voice. You’d have absolutely nothing going for you otherwise.”

Micky laughed to himself as he did what Davy said and shut his eyes.

He would die for Davy Jones, he thought. Which was somehow no more dramatic than any of his regular, non-sleepy, non-beer-addled sorts of thoughts. He would die for Mike and Peter, too, he decided, to be fair about it. But it would be much easier to die for Davy at the moment, since Davy was quite a bit closer to him, physically.

He imagined fighting traffic to take a bullet for Mike Nesmith. If it was either that or call ahead to warn Mike, he’d probably take the traffic and the bullet. He really did hate talking on the phone.

He fell asleep in the middle of wondering if everyone else would die for everyone else (He’d decided yes. He knew Davy would, anyway. They were all brothers. That was all he could think of, when Davy was talking about how dumb each and every one of them was. They were all brothers).

+++

Micky might as well have not gone to sleep at all. With only around three hours’ sleep when Davy’s alarm went off, he woke up more tired than he’d gone to bed.

Davy was the sort who didn’t even need an alarm. Which wasn’t to say he’d set it for Micky’s benefit, though he’d been up for a while and hadn’t turned it off, either. But they were having meetings before they took off on tour and Davy was professional enough not to trust his internal alarm clock no matter how reliable it was.

Busy, busy, busy.

Micky begged to have breakfast, but Davy was so steadfast in never eating with Micky again that he said no even though they’d have to wait until lunch to get a meal. As a matter of fact, Davy carried on, he had half a mind to talk to Micky’s mother the next time she came on set and tell her how miserably she failed in teaching her son table manners.

Blah, blah, blah.

Whatever.

The most the bigwig guys ever brought to meetings most of the time now were jellybeans, and even that was under duress on account of they could be projectiles. Micky was dreaming of those jellybeans. He’d been going back and forth on how he felt about Donnie being canned, but he was glad about that right then, too. It meant he could fill his stomach up with water without laser beam eyes focused on him the entire time.

As they drove to the meeting, Micky became less convinced that he’d die for Davy and more convinced he’d become a cannibal and eat Davy. He debated on how, and decided on curry. He was pretty sure Brits were known for their curries.

“Tikka masala, that’s curry, right?” he asked. He didn’t actually know the difference.

Davy gave him a glance like he was stupid, but then gave a non-answer of, “More or less.” Which for a moment made Micky want to grab the steering wheel and kill them both. But he only wanted to kill them a little, so he settled for not doing it at all.

They got to the meeting very early. Earlier than either Peter or Mike or even half the Guys in Suits, which shocked Micky quite a bit. Not so much that he and Davy were on time. He hated to be late to meetings, and was generally punctual so long as he was actually awake and not distracted with things he liked better. But Peter and Mike both had such a stick up their asses that he was a little surprised they hadn’t been sitting in the boardroom all night long like statues. He suspected this meant Davy was making a little bit of a power play, though he couldn’t figure out to what end. He had a few little demands, and Davy had the fewest, littlest demands. He was bolstered by Mike, himself, and could probably still be convinced to give it up if everyone could just play nice in the sandbox together. Davy was very much _not_ bolstered by Mike….

Ah, there it was, Micky decided. Davy was, most likely, hoping to stir up Mike’s paranoia a bit by sitting in with the bigwigs early, maybe make them look like a conspiracy was brewing. Davy had stopped trying to pick physical fights with Mike once Mike’s fist had gone through a wall, but he’d started needling him other ways all the more. And Mike was getting much easier to needle.

He didn’t want to needle Mike, personally so he wished Davy would have consulted him before bringing him into a meeting half an hour early, if that really was the reason why.

His stomach growled.

Who cared about them, anyway?

Jellybeans.

He grabbed the big bowl of them and dragged it over in front of him. Davy glanced at him, but even Micky had never eaten jellybeans wrong, so that wasn’t something he commented on. Instead Davy was going on about Linda Haines for what Micky was sure was the million-and-first time. He knew Davy’s story wasn’t going to change, and he knew his advice wasn’t going to change, so he didn’t actually need to listen to it.

“Stop being a sore loser,” Micky said. He popped a jellybean into his mouth.

Ah, sustenance.

Davy kept on about her like he didn’t hear. Like Micky knew he would, because he’d done it the million other times Linda had come up. Or, rather, when Davy had brought her up out of the blue, because Linda was never an organic topic.

“David Pearl’s a nice guy,” Micky said, adding the last name only because he and Davy shared the first one. And sometimes names had a ring to them, anyway. Like ‘Davy Jones’, matter of fact. “We _like_ David Pearl.”

“You like David Pearl,” Davy said sourly, though he actually did, too, when he wasn’t being bitter about the whole thing. He started in on how Linda would do things with David Pearl that she wouldn’t with him.

Which, of course she would, she was his girlfriend. But Micky didn’t say anything. Instead he grabbed a handful of jellybeans, shoved them into his mouth all at once, and chewed with his mouth open, staring Davy dead in the eye.

“Christ!” Screamed Davy, leaping up from his seat to take one across the table instead. “You’re an animal!”

Micky threw out his arms and declared, “A Monkee!” although it came out ‘uh munphee’ instead.

“Why did _anyone_ ever let you out of your barn long enough for you to learn to _talk_?”

Micky was absolutely giddy. Davy couldn’t even one-up him in being a slob, because he had the only food and the room was clean in every other way. He wrapped his arms around the bowl of jellybeans just to be sure it stayed that way.

That was when Mike and Peter walked in. Together, unionized like they very rarely ever were.

Peter graced the entire room with a warm face.

Mike smiled at them just a little, on reflex. But then he took in The Suits, and his face hardened up like a door slamming shut.

He went to sit beside Micky, hauled him in by his scruff, and said sharply, “Don’t you know how Goddamned important this is? Quit fucking around for two minutes.”

It was sort of a whisper, but Micky was also sort of certain everyone in the room could hear it anyway. He glanced around. As a matter of fact, if he had to guess, he’d say Mike wanted everyone to hear him being put in his place. Another power move at his expense.

He could understand this one more than he had Davy’s, though, especially as he realized just how many Suits had come into the room while he was fooling around. So he let Mike have it without putting up a fight. He swallowed all the jellybeans he had in his mouth in one cartoonish gulp that hurt his throat.

When he took stock once more, he could tell how many lawyers there were. His heart started pounding hard in his ears. Seeing lawyers was starting to get an allergic reaction out of him, really made him close to breaking out in hives, because it meant he’d have to guard his money like a dragon with a pile of gold. He was shrewd with his money as it was, and hated being backed into a corner of pure selfishness. “Sorry, gentlemen, I, ah…skipped breakfast,” he offered.

He was actually saying this sincerely, which was what made Davy crack up into his hand.

If looks could kill, Mike would’ve been walking out of that meeting alone.

Micky barely paid attention to the meeting. Which was less of a meeting and more of a, what? Warning, maybe. He heard bits and pieces of it through the blood running in his ears.

“Well, boys, you’re on your own now—”

“You got that freedom you wanted—”

“We doubt _Headquarters_ will break three million—”

“Once you get back from tour, you’ll need to get started right away—”

“Personally, we suspect it’ll be a failure. Maybe you should consider—”

It wasn’t, really, anything they hadn’t heard before. There was rumblings of all of this the second Kirshner turned in his resignation. And they’d had meetings before this, too. But this was one of the first that was so formal, given that the album was out and the two-month mark, the mark that mattered to a lot of executives, would be hitting while they were on the road. They’d be around…Ohio? Micky couldn’t keep his dates straight. He went where they sent him. 

He heard Mike and Peter joining forces this go around, Mike going on about how he expected it would go double platinum. Which was a bold statement for something out only around a week, but then again maybe a strategic underselling considering how well their first album had done. Peter about how genuinely pure the music was. Which was something Suits didn’t give two shits about, but Peter gave a lot of shits about. And Mike gave a lot of shits about, but he was savvy enough not to say so right then.

And Micky heard his own voice saying even if it didn’t beat their first record, that was to be expected, it would still be a critical success.

The Suits were all very robotic and practical about things that were very personal.

It was going round and round this way for a long while. Everyone had numbers, the Colgems guys in their books, Mike off the top of his head. It was maddening, and Micky hadn't prepared at all for it. He was getting worn down, he could tell Davy was getting worn down. He knew that was the point of it all, too. Knew that was the only reason to bombard them with so many numbers. Real, projected, past, future, salaries and record sales and percentages. He knew it, he _knew_ it. But somehow he was still so often bringing a sword to a gunfight. He still couldn't find his way through to defend his best interests. Still trusted other people to do it for him. It was so overwhelmingly exhausting that he thought about running away to some distant land where he didn't know the language. Probably Japan. He had a market in Japan. 

All at once Mike stood up from his seat.

“Now, listen,” he said. “We got ourselves an album that’s gonna go at least double platinum. I’ll stake my life on that. And my reputation—I know maybe that it ain’t much in your eyes, but my reputation means somethin’ to the folks that matter to me, and I’d bet that, too. And we got that ourselves. Playing our own music. Singing our own songs. Writing our own songs. We’re doin’ the things ourselves y’all don’t want us doing because you know it’s hard.” He pointed at someone, but Micky was looking up at him, not following his finger. “How long would you try to write something before you paid someone to do it for you? You’re tyin’ all these anchors round our necks, trying to sink us for not doing things your way. Think you’re getting one by us, not planning any singles to put out, local—”

They were, in fact, getting one by Micky on that front, until that moment. They’d only been tossing around the idea of _Randy Scouse Git_ as a single in the UK. Colgems hadn’t discussed anything for the US market. It floored him, to not realize it was one of the many ways Mommy and Daddy Colgems was sending them to bed without dinner.

“But we’re still floating. You’re hurting no one but yourselves.”

Mike said it a little funny, ‘yourselfs’, almost.

“And, well, that’s all I got to say on that. I got a tour to get ready for, so y’all can hash this out any way you please. You know how I stand on it.”

Micky knew the reason the proceedings went so hard on business, when it was just him and Davy to talk things over. When there was no one like Mike or Peter around to turn it back to music. He’d known that since he was a little boy, that you had to check your hurt feelings at the door and cry on your own time. But all at once as Mike defended an album that had his own writing on it, his own blood and sweat and tears in the liner notes….

He got it.

He got Mike. He got Peter. He got their fights that he thought were so stupid even as they were working on the record. He’d probably think they were stupid again tomorrow, too. But for at least a second of Supreme Understanding, he, too wanted to tear the world apart for his songs.

He’d fallen in love with Mike the second he saw him. He’d fallen in love with Mike when Mike’s fist had went through plaster. And as he stared up at Mike, talking so passionately about things no one over thirty would ever think mattered, he fell in love with him all over again.

So when Mike pushed his chair in and left the room, Micky followed.

And then so did Peter.

And so did Davy.


	3. Summer 1967: California

Neither Davy nor Peter followed Mike past the solidarity of the doorway, though Peter did offer some words of encouragement before going the other way. Mike had restrained himself at the meeting, to a point, and there wasn’t a doubt that he’d stop soon once it was no longer required of him. A frothing dog would bite if let off the chain. They were tired of jerking their hands away to keep their fingers.

Micky followed Mike right on his heels, right to Mike’s shiny new car.

“Hey, uh—” Micky started. He stuck out his thumb like a hitchhiker. “Can I catch a ride? I came with Davy.”

Mike turned. Stared at him steely. Walked up on him, the way men do not when they’re looking for a fight, but when they want to preventone by making the other person curl up in fear, begging not to be struck. That worked most of the time for Mike. Even with men bigger than he was, if he could get an air about him, he could usually get them to back off with a stammering apology.

It wasn’t that Micky didn’t think Mike could trounce him in a fight, were it to get to that point. But he also knew Mike’s posturing inside and out. He’d been on the receiving end of these bluffs more than once. Peter had never been convinced it was a bluff despite Mike never really fighting any way but verbally. But Micky had known it from the start—Davy had known it, too, until Mike had blown a gasket at Donnie Kirshner. Davy would bluff right back, get back up on him until Mike either had to put up or shut up. And Mike had always shut up, right up until he hadn’t, and had instead put his hand through a hotel wall. Suddenly Peter had proof it wasn’t bluffing, and suddenly Davy stopped his grandstanding. But Micky still knew that if Mike could back down without taking an actual loss, he’d do it.

Besides, being physically close to someone had never bothered Micky the way it did most people. He’d never learned a lot of social nuances that came somewhere between middle and high school where closeness and lack thereof suddenly mattered; he had instead spent those years being told by directors to get closer to fit in a shot. Having his personal space invaded didn’t disturb him.

So he let Mike crowd him without stepping back. Physically, Mike had never scared him.

No, the reason he knew Mike would win were they to take this road further than playing chicken, the thing that truly did scare him, had nothing to do with physicality. It had everything to do with mentality.

Micky would do _a lot_ to win.

Mike would do _anything_ not to lose.

They stared at each other for a long, long moment.

Micky wasn’t surprised when Mike stepped back from him. But he was quick to match the motion, just so Mike could take it as a draw. He looked Mike over and saw his fists unclench. His eyes had been fixed on Mike’s face and until that moment didn’t know they’d been balled up to begin with.

“How long do you suppose that meeting was?” Mike asked.

Micky had been ready for combative. This was so conversational that he startled. He looked at his watch. “A little over an hour.”

Mike nodded. He said nothing for another long, long moment.

“Next time, Mick,” he said, finally, face drawn tight with words to match, “Pretend you’re on my side for an hour. It’s a pain in my ass fightin’ fifteen million-dollar lawyers. But you ‘n’ Davy, man, you’re’a bigger one. You’re sittin’ on the sidelines gigglin’ like hyenas because you don’t care how it turns out. You’re just waiting to see what scraps you get.”

Micky opened his mouth, then closed it. He could’ve argued a bit. But despite the sting of Mike’s words, he could see the truth of them where it mattered. The points he could fight on were all where it didn’t. He knew because he and Mike had argued this point before, though it had never been so sharp as it was then.

Nor had it mattered before, because truth be told Micky had never thought four guys—two guys, with himself and Davy playing as referees, doling out wins and penalties both ways— could get anywhere with a multi-million-dollar conglomerate. He’d thought the money they were offering, the resultant sales the handcrafted team was getting, would’ve been enough to buy off counter-culture idealism.

As sharp as his words had been, Mike was already winding down a little. He was tired in more ways than one. He continued, “Maybe it wouldn’t piss me off so much if you weren’t good at it. Making music—writing song’s, particular. We could be on to something with that.” A beat. Then he clarified pointedly, “_You _write good. Best writing Davy does’s on autographs.”

Micky laughed, purely out of surprise.

Mike paused again, then said, “Mick, all I need is four guys to act like they got one thing in mind when I’m up against ten, twenty guys who _do _got one thing in mind. Me and Peter pulled it together.”

There was a lot there that was left unspoken. Half of the things Mike said were never heard.

For one, Micky didn’t miss that even then Mike was painting himself as leader, having them all work together _for_ him instead of with him. This had never been something Micky cared about. Would never be something he’d care about. Mike and Peter could fight over _that_ scrap for the rest of their lives.

And there was another thing hidden beneath the words: Mike got on much better with Micky than he ever did with Peter or Davy. It shouldn’t be a big ask to just act like he had a stake in the game. But it was more than that. Most people would take this more as a reprimand than something very close to begging. But it was as close to begging as Micky had ever seen Mike get. Probably as close as it would ever get. His face was calm, but his eyes were desperate, and it was right there laced up in his words: he _needed_ this.

“Well, Nez….” Micky tipped his head, licked his lips. He sniffed a little. “I don’t know if you sold the fat cats on anything. But you sold one of the hyenas. Next time I’ll be on your side. And I won’t be pretending…. So, hold off on putting your hand through my face, okay?” he requested.

Mike nodded. He turned and started walking away at that, but Micky could see the tension slide out of his shoulders.

“I was holdin’ off, already.”

Micky didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. “That means I can get a ride, then?”

“Walk, Micky.”

Instead Micky hopped over the passenger’s side door while Mike walked around to get in the driver’s seat. He was glad Mike’s back was turned, because he was always a little clumsy and _definitely_ clipped the door with his foot. And he was pretty sure Mike would start yelling at him for his car being scuffed, no matter how smooth the finish was after his foot touched it.

“You know, the stuff you said in there really gave me the tingles,” Micky said. He shoved his arm out at Mike as Mike started the car. “Look! Goosebumps!”

Mike didn’t look, which was just as well, because he didn’t actually have any goosebumps. But he was completely honest about the rest of it.

“I hear they got a shot for the tingles, now,” Mike returned.

Micky graced that with a crooked smile.

They lapsed back into silence as they drove.

Micky sniffed and rubbed his nose as he thought.

“You know…” he started.

He stopped.

“Yeah?” Mike asked.

“Ah, it’s silly.”

“Yeah. Never known you to be silly,” Mike said dryly.

Micky sniffed again. He was silent for a long stretch. He focused on the music coming from the radio. He found himself hoping it would be from their new album, even though he’d gotten sick to death hearing their songs last time. He was tired of their success and scared that it would end.

He had a lot of things he could say. He knew better than to say most of them.

“You know, my dad had a seven-million-dollar contract with Howard Hughes.”

“You’re right, that’s silly.”

Micky put his elbow on the car door, put his cheek in his palm. He smiled. “I’ll tell you the silly thing some other time.”

Mike didn’t answer.

Micky watched Mike’s profile for a second. He looked very handsome. Micky looked away. “Seven million dollars to be put in whatever movies Howard Hughes wanted him in. Just on retainer. That’s a pretty good gig, right?”

“It’s not chump change.”

“RKO put him in one picture in six years. Seven million dollars for one picture. You know, if it’d been me, I’d’ve been happy with that. I’d’a just invited a bunch of girls over. Thrown a bunch of parties. Bought some nice cars….” Micky frowned as he considered it. “But not my dad, man. He kept asking Howard, ‘How come you’re not putting me in pictures? Put me in some movies,’ you know. And Howard Hughes said, ‘I’m saving you for something big, George.’”

Micky was silent in his thoughts for long enough that Mike said, “Yeah?”

Micky blinked. “Ah. Well. Eventually my dad broke his contract. He got told ‘I’m saving you for something big’, and my dad said, ‘Actors can get stale. They might even start believing their own hype.’ Or something like that.” He mimicked his dad the best he could, even though he doubted Mike knew his father’s voice. It was much deeper than his own, but he liked to think he could hear it anyway, the same way he liked to think he could see his dad’s face sometimes, in a picture taken at just the right angle. “And he quit. I know he still made big money on it. It’s not like it sent us to the poor house, him cutting out with RKO. I don’t know if he got the whole seven million, but it was a lot. But he was like you, and Peter. The whole, ‘for the craft’ thing. He liked working, anyway. Hotels, restaurants, acting, managing me with my mom…. He was a real busy guy. Real busy.”

Mike glanced at Micky sidelong.

He didn’t ask what the point was. Didn’t even care to know. Some of the best stories Mike had ever heard had no point.

Micky knew what the point of it was, of course. He’d been working to it the entire time. _Let’s break our contracts. Let’s all start a new band together. They might own The Monkees but they don’t own **us**. All we have to do is think of a new name._

But fear grabbed his heart and squeezed it tight. It felt at once like his veins had filled up with ice water. He took a deep breath, and the feeling passed.

“I think I’m getting in over my head, Mike,” he said.

“Just nerves, babe,” Mike said, but it sounded uncertain. His voice was getting an uneasy edge to it. Another long pause. “Do you need me to come in for a beer?”

That was maybe the weirdest self-invite Micky had ever heard in his life. He laughed, confused, and was all set to mock it. Oh, the great holy Nesmith, offering to give up a minute of his day to a lowly peasant, if he _needed_ it—

But the words caught in his throat as he realized that Mike had meant it just as he had said it, and that the edge in Mike’s voice was concern. “No,” he said quickly. “No, man. My head’s on straight. I don’t—go home, y’know? I can’t wait until we’re on tour. I need a break from The Suits. That’s all.”

There must’ve been something to his voice. It took a little while to notice, but a few blocks on and Micky knew they were taking a long way around to get to his house.

“You kidnapping me?” Micky asked. It was a joke, of course, but his voice was soft and fond without the affect he often took on with joking.

“Just taking in the sights,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” Micky answered. He stared at Mike instead of looking out at the road, even as he asked, “What sights?”

“They built some new houses here,” said Mike. After a half-second of deciding what direction to take, he decided on, “They just put in the new dumpsters.”

“I like the green ones best,” Micky returned with a smile. He looked away from Mike, with purpose. Put his hands in his lap and looked at them instead. “But,” he decided, “I’m waiting for the see-through ones. Man, seeing piles of garbage will triple the market value around here—these folks see art in everything.” He knew, because he was one of those folks. He got hit in the heart looking at Andy Warhol’s soup cans. He’d probably be the first one lining up to take pictures of garbage piled in a clear bin.

“Oh, no, I can’t have that,” Mike said.

“No?” Micky asked. He was already lifting his hand to cover his smile, knowing Mike was going to make him laugh.

“No, people will see me in there, digging around, tryin' to find the next script they wrote for us."

Micky laughed light and breezy and smothered by his palm. He turned his head away. His heart drummed a staccato beat that made him dizzy. He thought about leaning over and kissing Mike on the lips. He thought about bending over and sucking Mike off while he drove. And that was such a surreal thing to think in response to what Mike had said that it made Micky laugh just a little harder.

"The shows aren't that bad, babe."

"'Not that bad'," Mike echoed. His tone was derisive, but only a little, several notches up from how he'd say it to Bert or Bob.

"When they don't forget a minute so we gotta do those stupid interviews," Micky added, picking at his fingernails. He didn't think the show was undermining his credibility, any, like Mike was starting to. But then he was an actor acting a singer. Mike was a singer, acting a singer.

Mike was starting to prefer those stupid bits to the rest of it, because those stupid bits could sometimes let him say what he really thought on the whole thing. That wasn't a point he could ever sell Micky on, and he understood the reasons enough to not say anything at all.

After a moment, Micky decided to go back to teasing. “You know what, I take it back. If _you’re_ in there, market value will quintuple.”'

“I’m worth almost twice as much as rotten fruit ‘n’ beer bottles?”

“Mm-hmm. Almost.”

“Well, thanks, Mick, that means a lot,” Mike said. He was very sarcastic, but Micky could tell there was no hurt in it.

“Aw, you know how much I like fruit and beer, Mike,” he cajoled anyway. He pinched Mike’s cheek like an affectionate grandma. Like how he expected his grandmother from Italy to be-- something of a stereotype he'd built up in his head, as he only really knew his family on his mother's side. “Especially the beer.”

They'd made there way around to his house eventually, and when they did he found he wanted to tell Mike to keep driving. But he had no destination in mind. He just wanted to drive away, away, away for a while with someone who could understand at least some of the emotional whiplash his insides were going through. So instead he got out of the car the moment Mike stopped it. Then turned and leaned in over the door. “Listen. I’m sorry about this morning. Really. Are we cool?” He stretched his hand out.

Mike took it. Shook it firmly.

Micky smiled and stepped back.

And off Mike drove.

The first thing Micky did was take his phone off the hook. If there were any more meetings, he didn’t want to hear about them. He just had to get past one show in California and then they’d be flying off to Jolly Ol’ England where he could unravel a little without producers saying I Told You So and family and friends taping him up to hold him together. Not many understood the value of a good breakdown. He did. He’d always admired children, the way they could cry and cry and then get back up and carry on like normal without people thinking there was something wrong with them for not keeping it together.

He wished there was an alarm clock that could be scheduled days in advance.

Well. There was a service for that. But that would require putting his phone back on the hook.

He grabbed a notebook and wrote a short little thing: OWNER OUT. PLEASE DON’T COME IN. THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING.

And signed it just the way he would an autograph. He stepped outside to tape it onto his front door, and locked his door behind him. He never locked his door. As a matter of fact, he often left them wide open. All of them: Front, back, and even garage. People floated through his house the way dreams went behind eyelids on a calm, cool night. Physically locking himself up for a few days with the note acting as a little white lie would probably be the only way to keep them all out. Even then there might be a few renegades—he definitely knew one or two who were willing to break in a window to get a beer. To their credit, he was pretty sure they’d toss money at him after they raided his fridge.

He took a shower after that; he hadn’t had a change of clothes at Davy’s and was more than a little ripe since the day before. As he stripped, he had a momentary rush of gut-churning embarrassment that the Colgems guys could probably smell the weed that had worked its way into his clothes on top of the other ways he’d embarrassed Mike and the band. But Peter smelled that way all the time lately, anyway. And besides, he was getting so deep in the scene that it wasn’t a secret anymore no matter how strait-laced he’d been when the show had first gotten put together.

The next thing he did was listen to some blues records, and some light opera. He still often listened to opera when he ate alone at home, a habit courtesy of his father all those years ago, but outside of mealtimes he didn’t listen to it nearly as often. He couldn’t say why. It sounded very nice.

The last thing he did that night was tear one more piece of paper and write down A List Of People Who Would Miss Me. He put more names on there than he thought he’d get, but fewer than he wanted. Then he took it into the backyard and burned it. He'd meant it as if he were moving to Japan, rather than anything more sinister. But he still realized abstractly as he sat in the dirt and looked at the ashes that this was exactly the weird, melodramatic thing that must have been on Mike's mind when he'd offered to stay for a while. That made him smile, and he was glad that he’d decided to put Mike on the list. It also made him know he’d have to get his shit together for a little while longer—Mike wasn’t exactly known for his emotional intuitiveness, so….

Well.

Outside of his songs, which were some of the deepest things Micky had ever heard in his life.

Luckily, he was a theater kid at heart and every ounce of his weird melodrama had gone to calming his nerves. Maybe they could figure all this out in the end. Maybe the band wouldn't implode-or-explode. Maybe all they had to do was unite. He was backing Mike now, and no one could accuse him of riding the fence anymore. Davy would be pissed at him, but Davy’s kind of anger was typically easy to manage. He could maybe even sway Davy on it, now that he’d picked which way he thought they should go.

He laid on his back and stared up at the clouds. By then it was getting dark. It was an absolutely beautiful day.

He fell asleep outside. When he woke up, he headed in and put his phone back on the hook.

He could handle the meetings for a little while longer, until they went to England.


	4. June 28: England

“Sit still.”

Mike was ostensibly sitting on his hotel bed, playing guitar. What he was actually doing was watching Micky bounce off of the walls. He was honestly a little glad for it, despite wanting Micky to just sit still for two Goddamned seconds. Everyone seemed to be getting on better now that they were in England and weren’t under the same microscope that staying in California brought. Though they’d had no more meetings of any substance, there’d still been a tension. A heaviness. Everyone had stayed wound up until the plane had lifted off, like the leash tied round their necks all at once snapped.

Micky’s face ran a gamut. It started off apologetic, the kid with his hand in the cookie jar, until he met Mike’s eye. His face often did that, millisecond apologies before he decided to play to his audience. “I can’t! We’re free! We’re free!” That second one was really _freeee**ee**e**e**_**_!_** while spinning around with his arms out until it looked like he might fall over.

“You’d think you were moving to England, not goin’ to work.”

“Maybe I am,” Micky declared. “Maybe I’m going to change my name and live here forever. I’ll drive on the wrong side of the road and convert all my dollars to pounds, every last one of them—” he pulled out his pockets, which happened to be empty. “Done! Easy!”

“Well, I happen to know one fella from Manchester who’s gonna be going to the states in a week,” Mike offered, caving to Micky’s enthusiasm.

They’d done improv several times in practice for the show, and he’d always gotten on well when they played off each other. Mike lifted his eyebrows a bit as he threw this imaginary ball. Micky caught it just as expected.

“Yes!” he declared, pointing at Mike so dramatically that he leaned in, almost getting on one knee to do it. “Yes! That’s it! I’m going to be Davy Jones! Davy!” he went to Davy and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Davy, darling, Jonesy, my dear boy, we aren’t nearly close enough. Tell me everything about you—like your social security number.”

“He don’t even got a picture of you in his wallet,” Mike threw in, “Maybe you can lend him your driver’s license ‘til he gets one printed.”

Micky broke character at that and giggled, though he managed to swallow it. Mostly.

“You’re off your rocker,” Davy accused, “You think _that_,” he gestured to Micky’s face, “Can pass for this?” then his own.

Davy was joking but if Mike had to guess, there was at least an undercurrent of legitimate insult. He wondered if Micky caught that the way he did.

“You’re right, oh, no, oh, no,” Micky lamented.

He fell into incoherent, worried babbling. He was stalling, trying to think of a retort, so Mike threw him another ball. “Gonna have to cut you off at the knees so you match, Mick.”

The look Davy gave him was absolute murder. He was truly starting to take cracks about his height (or lack thereof) personally. He hadn’t when they’d started, but certainly had gotten there, and Mike knew it. He’d maybe done it on purpose, but only maybe.

Micky beamed and dropped to his knees, wrapping his arm around Davy’s waist instead. Davy knocked him away, but Micky carried on undeterred. “Oi, Guvnah! Me name’s Davy Jones. I used to be with The Monkees, but they kicked me out on account of me flat and ugly face.” Between the short jokes and the rather abysmal attempt at a British accent, Davy had been getting wound up, to the point Mike was expecting him to throw a punch or two, but he relaxed again as Micky’s barbs turned inwards. “Thousands of girls at our concerts an’ not a one of ‘em looking at the stage! Not a one! I was looking out into a sea of backs! They couldn’t bear to see the singer had no profile! They threw me out and I landed flat on my face—Literally! flat on my flat face!”

The accent, which hadn’t started off strong to begin with, had completely disappeared by the end and instead turned into a more typical exaggerated-Micky-Dolenz voice. Mike was a fan of that voice. It didn’t make a single lick of sense but was so desperate and yet somehow so earnest that it always tickled him.

“All right, all right,” Davy said, putting his hands out placatingly. “I’ll give you ‘Davy Jones’. You need it more’n I do. Maybe I can even turn this ‘Dolenz’ kid into a respectable name.”

“That ship’s sailed,” Mike said.

Davy gave him a measured look that may or may not have forgiven him for cracking on his height, but was at least amused. Davy was always quicker to forgive Micky than he was Mike, and Mike was hard-pressed to find fault with that choice, even outside of the band’s recent bickering. He forgave Micky rather more quickly than he did most people, himself. But then, Micky not only apologized when he was wrong, but forgave without needing apology when he wasn’t. They all had their shortcomings, and for three-quarters of them, it was ego.

The rest of the day they switched names. Davy was Micky, who was Davy. Once Peter rejoined them, Mike convinced him to become Mike. Peter hummed and said, “Not my first choice,” but Mike was in a good enough mood to take it as a joke instead of an invitation to fight. Which it may have been. Sometimes he couldn’t tell when he was reading into things with Peter and would only come to a decision days after the fact, at which point he was far beyond being corrected even by himself, so it didn’t really matter.

Peter, in turn, was in a good enough mood to enjoy being Mike Nesmith for a day.

They even presented to reporters this way. Half were too old to tell the difference between one wild-haired kid and another, and the other half were too young to be bold enough to call them out on the charade.

It was all right, Mike thought. Most things were, if he didn’t think about them too much.

+++

Mike liked England. For the same reason he liked Davy, he supposed, when Davy wasn’t being a complete shithead. There was a certain level of standoffishness to the whole place that there wasn’t in America, and most definitely wasn’t in California. Standoffishness and dry, surreal sorts of humor. He could sort of get a pass with that kind of thing when he was in Texas, but at least a small part of that was that he’d adopted the traits from his surroundings. Texas was Bless Your Hearts, I’ll Pray For Y’all and Well, That’s Nice said with a thin smile and a sip of iced tea. California was high fives, hugs and kisses for strangers, hurt feelings if you said something too ironic or sarcastic. Or maybe Mike was just an asshole. He’d heard it before, often enough that it was probably truer than it wasn’t.

Of course, he also liked being able to see the big names in music. You couldn’t go just anywhere and see The Beatles. You couldn’t be just anyone and sit and have dinner with them, or so he heard. He was still fixed on deserving the whole thing, being _worth_ sitting and having dinner with The Beatles. He didn’t think he did, but his own music, his own writing, were making it big this time around. If he hadn’t made his way to the top on his own merit, he had at least dug his claws in and stayed there on his own, and maybe that was enough.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was Boone-ing on a grand scale, in a new, twisted-up way that happened to work in his favor. Maybe the wool(hat) was pulled down over collective eyes because of first impression. Maybe the world as a whole was so indoctrinated into the Bubblegum Monkees That Don’t Play Their Own Instruments, that getting his own way didn’t matter to anyone but his own wounded pride. Maybe they would always be seen as they had been and be given no room to grow into what they could be. And what _could_ they be?

He ate with The Beatles, drank with them. They all sat and talked music and the show and everyone laughed and had a good time and there wasn’t any condescension. It was very legitimizing. He even remembered that he found the show funny, now that he was around talented people who didn’t think it was changing the image he wanted. Once he’d drunk enough, the voice inside his head screaming that he was a fake shut the hell up.

Paul and John started talking about how they wanted to do a show, themselves. Another movie, and a show.

“A show like ours?” Micky asked. He sounded awestruck.

“Well, no,” John said.

“Maybe,” Paul said.

John laughed. “Maybe,” he said. And maybe really was ‘maybe’, or maybe it was just to let Micky down a bit easier.

“We’ve done the cartoon scene,” Paul added to clarify.

“And the movies,” John cut in.

“And the movies. We’d like to try something new.”

“The problem, you see, is by the time you think of something new, someone’s gone and done it already!”

Paul laughed. They all laughed. It was easier to laugh at the moment than it was sometimes. Social lubrication; some had just been greased with beer, but there was LSD, weed, pills, and probably more all readily available. Mike didn’t know all what there was. He’d stuck with the beer and a joint, himself.

Paul McCartney reminded him of Micky, if Micky could dial back his insanity and act the way people generally found to be polite. But he was nice, friendly, funny, and got on with everyone well enough.

Micky leaned over and whispered straight in his ear, getting so close he couldn’t stop a shiver from running down his spine, “You’re Lennon.”

It discombobulated Mike to have thoughts so close to his own spoken out loud. Even though they’d been compared to The Beatles for over a year by then, so it wasn’t that uncommon a thought.

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” Micky continued whispering. “But instead’a’ making a blank you, they made you British.”

It was pretty bold to think of Mike as the original, not for the least of which because he knew he was younger than John Lennon, but he didn’t say so.

Micky was half-sitting, half-leaning. He had a habit of sitting the way girls did, on his hip, propped up with his arm like he was posing for a picture. When he scooted over and rested his head on Mike’s shoulder, Mike wasn’t even surprised; Micky was a little better at holding his alcohol than he was about managing harder drugs, but he still probably had no center of gravity to speak of at that point. Besides, he could have tried the harder stuff around. Mike didn’t necessarily think so, mostly because his eyes looked only slightly glassy, not like they needed all the light in the room to be able to see.

“Kevin McCartney was in Invasion of the—” Micky did finish the title, but it disappeared into a mumbled nothing, then rose back, someone playing with his volume dial, “You s’pose they’re related?”

“McCarthy, Mick,” Mike corrected.

“_Right!_” Micky’s voice got raspy there, the way it did when he was putting on being an old-time blues singer that smoked ten packs a day. “Paul McCarthy.”

Mike nodded sagely and quirked a small smile, amused. “That’s right.”

Mike carried on talking with the room as a whole with Micky’s head solid on his shoulder. It was hard, because while he was talking to everyone, Micky was talking just to him, face pressed into his neck, chattering like a parrot. Mike could hold one conversation with some level of success, but couldn’t manage two—or three, or four—as the room itself split into different conversations as the night wore on. Girls flirting, men talking business, jokes, the future of music, politics…. He didn’t feel bad about eventually just turning into a listener.

If there were anyone who could handle four conversations at once it was Micky, and clearly he couldn’t manage it, either, since he’d decided to play the role of the drunk uncle for this get-together. So really Mike had nothing to feel bad about in just being a voyeur. He still drank and smoked and laughed and lost track of everyone before the night was over.

Mike couldn’t remember if he fell asleep on the floor of....whose house was it? He also couldn’t remember getting back to his own hotel, or if they’d had any discussion of meeting up in one room or were just deposited there. He started coming back to reality around the time he had to step over Micky to get to sit on his bed. A bed. He didn’t know what room they’d ended up in.

When he finally looked, he could tell in a second that Peter and Micky were still a little buzzed, with what he had no idea. He and Davy had come down quite a bit. Davy was looking presentable already, had already showered and dressed like a million bucks.

“Man, the girl I met last night, wow,” Micky was saying, “Wow, wow. She did some wild stuff, boy.”

“They were putting off a great light,” Peter said agreeably. Mike assumed he meant auras, but he really had no idea.

“The Beatles get some great chicks,” Davy said. “Of course, they can afford ‘em.”

“Her fingers, God! She drove me crazy. If everyone did that with their fingers, I’d never get out of bed.”

“I’m glad we left California. Just for a while. California, it’s a dream vortex. It gets you all mixed up. You start off wanting to be a director, but then you hit a new scene and want to be a singer. Or a singer, becoming a director, or a producer, in our case. It's always spiraling. You can keep your head focused in England.”

“We need a manager like Brian Epstein. He’s making things happen. He’s queer, you know? Maybe we find a manager, all we gotta do is hang ‘round some cottages.”

This seemed a lot like having three conversations again, and he wasn’t in the frame of mind to even watch it like he had last night. He truly needed a focused, singular conversation that didn’t run off the rails right away. Mike went ahead and got up to take a shower, though he actually could hear Micky hone in a bit on what Davy had said before he shut the bathroom door.

“_Cottages_? What, gays like quaint little houses in the countryside? I do, too, maybe we _should_ go there.”

“Cottages,” Davy corrected, like it had been a different word entirely. “The lavs they hang ‘round when they’re looking to…” The water started running then, and Mike couldn’t hear anymore.

He stayed in the shower for a long while. This was something he’d had to train himself to do, to stay more than a couple of minutes beneath the running water. It was one of the few perks of being rich that didn’t come inherently. It was easy, to suddenly spend money on flashy cars and big houses. It was hard to stay beneath water and know it wouldn’t suddenly go cold the way it had for years and years beforehand. Sometimes being poor was a mindset.

He stepped out and wrapped one towel around his waist, using another to dry his hair. That was the first hint he got that they’d been purposefully wrangled into one room: there were more towels than was needed for one person. Although he often got the star treatment going to hotels, now, no one had ever cared about the towels besides maybe doing some kind of origami with them.

Origami. That was one of those words he'd said wrong so often for a laugh, _oragimi, _that he ended up getting it wrong half the time even in his own thoughts. Not that it came up all that often.

He stepped back into the room to follow that hunch and see if someone had set clean clothes for him somewhere.

Peter was sitting on the bed when he got out. Davy was standing, still, probably wanting to keep his clothes unwrinkled since they’d be seeing press again at some point in the morning. Micky had taken great strides in being a person and had gotten up off the floor. He was singing part of _Randy Scouse Git_, mostly the nonsense part of it that weren’t words, but bizarrely trying to make it operatic.

“You like that, Mike?” he asked when he finished, just as Mike had found the clothes that whoever was put in charge of babysitting them had laid out.

Mike glanced over at him for a second, getting the strange response of Micky immediately looking away from him. “It’s good,” he said mildly, though he added, “You know I don’t go in much for the scatological,” as a warning that he was mostly just being polite and Micky shouldn’t press for anything better.

It was something he usually tried to defer judgment from, when it came to Micky, because Micky drew so much inspiration from that sort of style when left to his own devices. Mike also didn’t care for opera, quite frankly, but he knew so little of it that saying so just made him feel foolish. Luckily opera had never been something Micky had tried to wriggle into a song, so Mike never had to form a better opinion on it.

Davy laughed loudly, and kept laughing until he was almost wrinkling his suit despite not sitting down.

Mike set his clothes down and looked at him. His hackles were already getting up despite not knowing what he was mad about. He looked to Micky for confirmation that he was being laughed _at_. Micky did meet his eyes this time around, but they were big and confused and offered him nothing. He looked to Peter and got nothing there, either, though Peter didn’t seem confused, more just feeding off of Davy's mirth and not bothered with the reason.

“Mick’s girl goes for the scatological,” Davy eventually croaked out, explaining himself just before Mike could get past annoyance.

Peter said, “Not cool, babe,” and started in on some concept Mike didn’t know anything about.

He was halfway through the explanation before Mike’s brain caught up with Davy’s joke, and that while he’d been in the shower, Micky must’ve explained exactly what the girls fingers had done. “What the hell’d she do that for?” he asked, getting riled again, getting at least a little angry on Micky’s behalf.

“Because it feels _nice_, **_Mike_**,” Micky returned, tone catty. But to his credit he had sense enough not to leave it a wound anyone could pour salt into later. His face shifted and he said, “Like all young, red-blooded Americans, I dreamed what it would be like to be in bed with Davy Jones.” He made a motion with two fingers that was crude in America and possibly doubly so in England. He moaned, “Oh, Davy, just like that!”

It was clear where Davy’s insecurities lay, because while a jab at his height could earn a punch in the face these days, the jab at the size of his endowments just had him laughing, throwing a pillow that hit the bathroom door as Micky disappeared to go take a shower.

There was a knock at the door and Peter answered, even though that was when Mike had finally gotten around to dropping his towel. Peter had no sense of shame—his or anyone else’s.

Luckily the head that popped in the door wasn’t a journalist, or a wayward teenage girl who managed to find them now that they weren’t in their designated rooms. It was a handler of some kind, who said, “You’ll be going for a photo shoot in an hour, so be ready soon, please.” He had the same tone of voice all handlers did. They reminded Mike of the teachers he’d had in school, polite and rude all in one go. Most people in the industry seemed that way.

Mike said, “We’ll be ready,” as he thought about why he dropped out of school.


	5. England June 30-July 4

They had a good, long time to stay in England. It was a bit of a laugh that being there more than a handful of days seemed like a long time, but it did. It actually did feel like a vacation sometimes, having an extra few days before they were set to play. Mike thought a few times about going and getting some souvenirs for people back home. And he did get them, but he had to send out a nobody-security to go and pick things up, or have them ordered in. He’d become too recognizable to want to bother with it himself, which meant it all lost the personal touch. That hadn’t been something he’d expected when he envisioned getting famous, that buying the little nothings that meant something emotionally would be delegated whenever he was outside of California where you couldn’t throw a rock without knocking a celebrity unconscious.

He’d probably lie, anyway, and say, “When I saw this, I thought of you.” Most people didn’t think much of souvenirs beyond a nicety. But it would still always rub his morals a little raw.

Davy shrugged his shoulders when he’d mentioned it, but then Davy was from England. He didn’t have a need for any of that, and what he did want he had family to get for him. Actual family, actual people who knew his interests. Of course, he didn’t go in that much for souvenirs, anyway; his taste had always been ‘sophisticated’, and he’d buy something better than knickknacks. Besides which, Mike had a hunch that he liked it when he was recognized, to a point. It was something about Davy that Mike found kind, but not entirely altruistic: He’d stay all day long signing autographs. He’d also stay all day long getting his picture taken.

Peter had no interest in souvenirs, either, but that was just anti-materialism. Anti-capitalism. The price for ‘souvenirs’ were always skyrocketed to take advantage of tourists and stuff the pockets of big businessmen. Mike actually agreed with this assessment. It was possibly the assessment he wished he had the fortitude to live instead of just espouse. He’d spoken a few times about how now that he had money he didn’t need material goods, and so did Micky and Davy for that matter, but Peter was probably the only one who stuck that thought out. When it came down to it, Mike had been the poor, starving artist by force. It was almost instinct to fight it when it came down to an option.

Micky was a mix of all of them. Like Davy, when he was in the mood for it he liked going and being recognized. He usually ended up hating it afterwards, but that was because he played chicken with it. If someone didn’t recognize him in one store he’d go on to the next and the next, and by the time someone _did_ recognize him, it was a hundred people running him down and making security wonder how the hell they got stuck looking after him. He’d play with a snake until it bit him in the face. But he was halfway like Peter, anyway, in that he rarely bought something special for people—souvenir things, anyway. He’d buy practical things, or music or things that he couldn’t make with his own two hands. Which wasn’t to say he was anti-capitalism on the whole thing; the person he tended to buy _souvenirs_ for just happened to be _himself _unless the entire state or country made him think of someone in particular. He talked at length about buying a keychain for his mom once they got to Texas because she had been born there, even though this made it objectively the worst place to get souvenirs from, considering she’d lived there almost two decades and visited multiple times a year.

That was somehow a sentiment that Mike could really get behind, despite its illogic, and was one of the things that made him feel better about not buying commemorative Big Bens or the like. There were Mexican bodegas that sold hand braided jewelry and things made on looms near enough where they were staying in Texas, and he thought of maybe making security buy something there instead of anything across the pond.

+++

They played Wembley and it was fantastic. The crowd cheered and cheered so loud he doubted they could even hear them. Sometimes he could barely hear himself. But he had a feeling it sounded amazing, and once he heard the live recordings later on, he’d have the proof of it. They were playing for themselves, really, truly, for good and for bad: The singing was amazing. The playing was incredible. He made sure to pay Peter a few hearty compliments on his finger work after the show. They could tear each other’s throats out over office politics all day long, but he had more than his fair share of respect for Peter’s musical ability.

Sometimes, sometimes…. Mike understood the lightning that had been caught in the bottle. He knew people saw that when they played together, but it was when they performed their solos that he really, truly appreciated the talent of the men he worked with. It was all too easy to forget, when he was going over everything with a fine-toothed comb, that things weren’t as bad as he found them.

Mike thought he performed pretty nicely, himself. But he tried not to toot his own horn too much. And while the song belonging, definitely, to someone else, made it easier for him not to be critical, his own solo belonged to _him_. And perhaps made him even_ more_ critical. But he liked _You Can’t Judge a Book by its Cover_, and liked his own take on it. The guys liked it, too. He tried to leave it at that.

There was a story Mike knew, that Robert Johnson sold his soul to be able to play guitar. He’d have figured Peter had done the same thing, save for its own fallacy: no one without a soul could play the way Peter did. Now and again Mike thought Peter made a bad choice, going with such a short song for his solo piece, but damned if he didn’t make it count.

Davy was pure Broadway. He could make everyone hear him even if he had no microphone, probably, his projection was so strong and clear. He knew how to look proper, like a professional, too. Back before they were well-known, back when they were just songs on the radio and faces on TV, people always took Davy for being the lead singer. He had that star quality, and no one could blame the audience for assuming. Except maybe Davy, but that was because he’d been promised the role of the lead, and by bits and pieces that had definitely gone Micky’s way. So far as voices alone went, Davy had once told Micky happily, “You’ve a voice that’d make me nan cry—and she’s been dead for years!” followed with, “A’course, you’ve a face that’d make her cry, too.” If he’d had to pick between his own face and Micky’s voice, there was no doubt that Davy would choose his face. There was no jealousy from either of the two, on that front.

Micky drove Mike a little insane. He’d chosen a strange one, too, if Mike had to judge that end of it: a song with few lyrics, and if Peter’s was short, Micky’s was long. He could triple the length of Ray Charles’ song. And yet somehow it wasn’t too long at all. He’d sing pretty and emotional, and he’d run all over the stage. He’d do that pretty and emotional, too. He took up the entire stage all on his own, got the entire crowd up and involved. He’d do his James Brown bit of running himself so ragged he needed to be led away, to the point that even Mike believed it. He actually believed Micky could perform himself into exhaustion, could keep singing until he died if no one intervened. There was something magic to that, especially when he looked and sounded so good doing it. Mike could feel it stop his heart in his chest, so he had no doubt what it did to the audience.

Mike had remarkably few complaints about the whole thing. The one thing he’d lodged into his brain that needed correcting was that Micky still didn’t have the greatest grasp on singing into the microphone when he was playing the drums; his voice ended up too far away too often for how much cash was being shelled out on the tickets. He and Peter had both corrected Micky before in practice. He knew Micky _did_ take criticism to heart, which meant if he couldn’t fix the problem that it came down to actual ability rather than willingness. Mike was both sorry and glad for that. It made gaps harder to overcome, but it also curbed Mike’s natural inclination to browbeat until they got somewhere on the matter.

Mike felt a warm surge of gratitude that it was Micky on the drums. While he thought Davy or Peter could have multitasked it better, that would have given him new things to critique. Peter couldn’t sing as well as Micky, and while Davy played drums well, he preferred singing and would have given it precedence. He knew that either of them would have taken his criticism as an insult. He also knew that even if they didn’t, he wouldn’t have believed that they were trying to fix it, and would have ridden them until there was another thing they resented him for.

After he complimented Peter and Davy in very sincere terms, he went to Micky. Squeezed his shoulder. Said, “The drums were great, and you got the most beautiful whisper no one’s ever heard.”

Micky looked at him, blinked, recognized the criticism, and laughed loud.

Mike smiled in return. Laughed when Micky mouthed a ‘Thank you’ in answer.

Mike’s heart beat so hard in his ears that he could almost have mistaken them for deafening him instead of Micky doing a bit. He cursed the adrenaline of the show, even if he’d spent a few too many years writing songs of love and want and yearning to not recognize the feeling.

After the show they again spent time with The Beatles. They again got drunk and high and silly. And Mike, again, in the early hours of the morning, had no remembrance of getting back to the hotel. Round and round she goes, where she stops….

It was still early when Mike caught sight of Davy peering out a window with a set of binoculars, but late enough he'd gotten his head square on his shoulders again.

“Bird watching?”

Davy actually laughed at the play on words. “No, man,” he said, turning around, “Micky’s blitzed and doing a street act.”

Mike blinked at that, stunned stupid. “What?”

“’E’s out there, talking peace and love with all the kiddies. Go see if Peter’s up, he’d love this.”

Mike went and got Peter without even putting up a fight. Then they joined Davy, sitting in front of the window and staring down. Indeed, Micky was doing a ‘street act’, such as it was. He was standing up on a bandstand centered in the park just outside their rooms.

Micky was talking, and as far as that went, it was easier to get the gist than make out everything he was saying, though he was talking clear and making his voice carry to get out to his entire audience. Peace, love, acceptance, all very nice. Then, one part, said exceptionally loud, _“You dirty rats--!”_

“Christ,” said Davy, “Cagney. You’d think someone’d take a hit out on that bit, by now.”

Mike looked at Davy, sidelong. “How long’s he been out there?”

“There were only ‘bout a’undred of ‘em when he started.”

“That’s Micky,” Peter said, pleased, “Always for the kids, man.”

Mike took that in. There were five times that by then, easily. He grabbed Davy’s binoculars to use them. The cord was still around his neck and Mike strangled him just a little, like it was an act on their show. He could see more people, coming in from all directions, circling in on Micky like fish to food.

He focused his gaze on Micky just when Davy yanked the binoculars back.

“He’s gonna get himself killed,” Mike said, like it was a revelation. In his head it had been hyperbolic, but by the time it got to his mouth it came out sounding…well_. Sounding_ pissed, but the anger was blanketing a very real fear that was making his heart jackhammer.

Peter gave him a sickened look. “They’re _kids_, Mike,” he reiterated firmly, spitting the name.

Davy found the comment funny instead of disgusting, and he laughed. “A thousand kids who’re going to follow him home like puppy dogs. Gonna need to buy a bigger house, he is.”

There was more talking. They couldn’t hear all of it, just bits and pieces, more from the crowd than from Micky himself.

“Oh, here comes a policeman!” Davy exclaimed, all accent, his tone like a sports commentator. “No, no! Two!”

Peter once more looked stricken. “Are they going to arrest him? They’ve got no right! This is a peaceful gathering, I’ll pay his bail myself—”

One of the cops weaved through the crowd, making his way to the bandstand to Micky. Mike grabbed at the binoculars again to look closer. Davy grunted but slid the strap up over his head this time to give them over to Mike.

Mike wished they _would_ arrest him. The crowd had grown massive. There were still people coming out of the woodwork, out of houses, up the streets, from all angles. It was getting large enough that the general rumbling, the mere existence of so many people at once, was filling the air. They weren’t loud, but there was almost an electricity to a gathering like this, something that sent invisible waves out. The way approaching storms could thicken the air with static and lift your hair on end.

He watched as Micky leaned in to listen to the police officer, who had gotten very, very close to talk to him.

This wasn’t something Mike could imagine ending in arrest. No, it would look bad for every last person involved for this to devolve to something criminal, in particular when the audience was so young. But he didn’t miss the way the officer’s fingers rested on his baton, just in case—there were probably six hundred people gathered around him; what could he even do with a baton, ‘just in case’? If it came to just in case, if there was any force taken, it would have to be against Micky. It would absolutely have to be, because there’d be no way for the officers at hand to control anyone but the head of it all, right then.

He was glad that Micky was so very animated, because this part of the discussion couldn’t be heard at all. Not even the general idea of it that had been floating the way it was before; he and the officer were leaned too close together, talking. But he could guess at it, with Micky being how he was.

_Please go back inside, Mr. Dolenz. It’s not safe for you to be out here._

_I feel safe, I’m just talking to my fans._

_If you don’t take our escort now we might not be able to help if things get out of hand._

_Things won’t get out of hand, we all talked about it, we all agreed._

It took to that point for Micky to ask, loud even over the audience, carried even across the street that still held some of its early-morning quiet with no cars to speak of, “Do you all want to hear a song?” And it was at that point that the officer made his way back through the crowd.

The crowd screamed. Micky’s hands went out like a pastor’s and he gently quieted them with a pat of the air, a ‘there, there, my children’ motion.

He sang.

Christ, he sang like Mike had never heard him.

A capella, no backing vocals, no beat, not so much as a gentle hum to guide him.

He sang Monkees songs only at great, screaming request, instead opting for his personal favorites. Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny Mathis, The Animals. He often sang _Misty_ or _House of the Rising Sun_ in the recording studio, but never for an audience, and rarely, rarely did he do it properly, rarely did he not get cut off by himself or others. He taught the children some Indian song that he himself had been taught only the night before, and probably even did it right; he caught on fast to learning songs no matter the language. He sang blues and rock, fast and slow, classics and contemporaries. In between songs he signed autographs until the pen he had ran out of ink, only to be eagerly replaced by someone in the audience. He talked with them all about his family, about Vietnam and what he was planning to have for breakfast. Race riots in Kentucky that had ended with hundreds of arrests only weeks before, and how he wanted to go back to school. To become a physicist, maybe. Or a psychiatrist.

Then he'd sing some more.

The crowd cheered for him because of course they did, of course, they were so filled with emotion that they couldn’t contain it.

Ten stories above him were the only three audience members who didn’t move a muscle, didn’t let out a breath until their lungs ached and then did so only in a quiet, shameful whoosh of air, so overcome that they feared they might disrupt what they were hearing.

Davy and Peter kept sneaking glances at each other, smiling wide with pride and adoration. _He’s one of ours_. One of our bandmates, our friends, our brothers.

Mike couldn’t take his eyes off of Micky long enough to express anything of the sort. He was transfixed. He’d never heard anything so beautiful. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

The crowd kept coming. Doubled, tripled. There could have been two thousand people all gathered tight around, wishing for a look, wanting to hear better, wanting just to be in Micky’s vicinity, to just bask in whatever warmth he could give them. Mike could understand. Ten stories up, much closer to the sun than any of them, and he still felt cold being so far from the bandstand.

Micky had sat down at some point, but he stood again and declared to them all that he was truly very sorry, but he really must go now. Thank you all for coming, please come to our show sometime, if you’re able.

Again Mike’s heart seized. They all knew the threat of leaving the audience that wanted more. There’d been people throwing themselves on their cars, as they tried to leave. There’d been screaming, tears. There’d been fans trying to rip their shirts for a keepsake, or just to get close to them. There was nothing more dangerous than trying to leave.

Micky stepped off the bandstand and was escorted back inside by security with nothing but yells of love chasing him down.

+++

Micky had just gotten himself a Coca-Cola and was headed off to bed when he ran into the rest of the guys. All three of them, gathered in his room. He stared at them for a second, a very long second, trying to work out what they were doing there, before Peter spoke.

“That was far out. A great use of your first amendment rights.”

“Oh, thank—a what now?” Micky blinked.

“This is _exactly_ the kind of thing the kids need to do up in Berkeley. Civil disruption. Loving disruption. If every campus was filled with kids doing what the kids out with you were doing—”

“Singing?”

“What’s a more peaceful demonstration than singing and talking about liberation? What’s a better way to cross the racial divide than showing we’re all human?”

Micky had turned up his nose, what little he had of one, at riots and even peaceful protests. Oh, not that he didn’t understand them or support them. But he’d always thought you’d get further with other political motions. But here he was, accidentally striking up his own peaceful protest, speaking of love and against the war and singing songs from black artists, Indian artists, saying how talented they all were and trying to get the kids to know the words of songs in different languages. Some of that was incidental; George Harrison had shared a beautiful song from Ravi Shankar the night before, and Micky was eager to pass it along. All he’d been trying to do was talk to fans, but it had turned into an actual conversation about just the things Peter was talking about, and it was maybe one of the first times he felt the full weight of what words alone could do.

Confronted with that knowledge, he didn’t know what to say to it. Luckily, Davy came in smiling. “I was hoping the cops’d nick ya and throw you in jail.”

“Pff, fat chance! They’d never put a face this pretty in the slammer.”

“Try it again when we’re in New York, we’ll see where your face winds up,” Davy said. He reached up, feeling Micky’s face teasingly.

Mike hung back while the other three chatted about civil disobedience, cops, music. There’d been too many protests for it _not_ to be one of those conversations. Anytime a group of people was gathered and a cop was nearby, there’d be an undercurrent of young people against authority. There had to be. Young people were facing unfair laws and curfews and sent to war just as they could vote, killed before they could enact change, and cops were starting to truly understand that if it were to come down to the wire, they were outnumbered. That, as much as the actual risk Micky was taking by being a celebrity, was the reason policemen stood by, ready and watching. Of course, Peter was blowing out of proportion what it meant, but he wasn’t entirely wrong that it was bigger than what Micky had intended. Most things Micky did were bigger than he intended. The paper could spin it a dozen different ways if they cared to. It might end up in their favor that few reporters had gotten up that early for their sake, since they weren’t slated to do anything until far later in the day.

Eventually Peter and Davy parted to go to their own rooms, to get themselves properly ready for the day. Mike stood then and Micky gave him a smile just soft enough not to be wry.

“You gonna yell at me, Mike?” he asked, taking a sip of coke and tipping his head.

Mike had, in fact, been going to do that, and had just been waiting not to have an audience for it. Being called out on it threw a hitch in his step, but he managed not to look too rattled. “Why do you think I’d do that?”

“Because you couldn’t hear my whispering Micky Dolenz voice?”

“I could hear your voice.” Mike found himself getting very close to Micky again, and he didn’t know why this time around. He knew that uncomfortable proximity didn’t work to cow Micky.

“How’d I sound?” Micky asked.

Mike would almost peg the tone as flirtatious, somehow.

“Lovely,” Mike said.

Using those sorts of words had gotten him called all kinds of names in Texas. Fag and queer and the like. But he was never the sort to mince words. ‘Lovely’ was what it had been, so that was what he would call it.

Micky smiled and ducked his head a little. He looked Mike over. Licked his lips and maybe, Mike thought, glanced to the bed before looking back to Mike’s face. “I could sound lovelier.”

He would’ve had to be an idiot not to know what Micky was getting at. They got a little closer, the way they stood sometimes when they were forced together in a very close shot. Noses touching, looking very deep into Micky’s eyes. He liked Micky’s eyes very much. Micky had the sort of face that papers had called ‘a boxer’s’, strong chin, all sharp harsh angles. But it wasn’t, not really, and that was because of his eyes—big and bright and soft and friendly, dulling any cruelty those harsh angles would have otherwise brought. The opposite of Mike’s own face, which he thought was fairly soft and round, but he had sharp, shrewd eyes that in turn made his whole face a little sharper, a little shrewder.

Mike knew what it could lead to. It would be a very easy path to take.

He’d never been one to take the easy road, even when it led right to what he wanted.

“Maybe,” he said instead, “If you practiced some more.”

Micky’s eyes widened. He looked hurt and embarrassed and surprised, but he laughed. Laughed and stepped away to go sit on the bed alone. “What did you want to yell at me for?” he redirected. He took another sip of his soda.

“You were real dumb, going out there. They could’ve killed you.”

He actually _had_ wanted to yell about it. But he’d been angrier the first go around, when he was only saying it to Peter and Davy.

“Killed me!” Micky laughed again. “Who am I, J.F.K?”

“You’re a guy who can draw a crowd of two thousand people in half an hour. It only takes one, Micky. Most folks loved Kennedy.”

Micky scoffed, but he did sober a little. Mike watched him and saw that all of a sudden he needed two hands to hold his coke.

“So don’t do that again, huh, man? Your ramblin’ gets me to sleep at night, now.”

“You calling me boring?” Micky asked, feigning offense, his eyes smiling.

Mike smiled. “I’m callin’ you familiar.”

Micky hummed. He smiled and looked down at his drink, rolling his coke between his palms.

“All right. No encores,” he promised. “You should always leave ‘em wanting more, anyway.”

Mike nodded. He didn’t say ‘thank you’, though he felt grateful deep down to his bones. He didn't say Micky had left him wanting more, because Micky would've taken it exactly how he'd meant it. 

He just told Micky to take it easy.

Then he went back to his room and jerked off until even wearing boxers made his cock ache and his knees weak. He managed not to see Micky’s face behind his eyelids when he did it, but that was a cold comfort: he couldn’t keep himself from hearing Micky’s voice as he sang, bright, strong, pretty. He couldn’t think of a way Micky could sound lovelier, and couldn’t imagine what it would do to him if he actually could.


	6. July 6: England. July 7: Florida

Micky wished he’d decided to wait until they were back in California to make a pass at Mike.

He didn’t wish he hadn’t done it, even with getting rebuffed. But he wished that he’d done it when he wasn’t trapped with Mike very nearly all day long. Back home he had his own house, friends, family, independent of Mike or The Monkees even if their social scenes overlapped. On the road this way, they were under considerably closer quarters. It was like they were living out the TV show, going on wacky adventures and all living under the same roof. It usually stopped short of them sharing a bed together the way they often did on the show. What a laugh. Ricky and Lucy needed separate beds to be decent on TV, but he could crawl in bed with three men and the audience would never think he was daydreaming of one of them wrapping their fingers around his cock and stroking him off.

He spent a lot of his time wishing he could avoid Mike. Avoid seeing Mike. Avoid thinking about Mike. Avoid smelling Mike’s cologne. Avoid imagining the moans he’d hear if he let Mike fuck his throat so hard he’d worry he’d lose his voice. Avoid imagining the taste that lingered when he swallowed afterwards.

He could eat dinner without Mike. He could get a girl and fuck her without Mike. He could go to the bathroom without Mike. But that was about the extent of it. In his waking hours, he probably had only an hour at most without one of the other guys.

That was a lot of time to spend around someone who’d turned him down.

It was made worse by the fact that Mike hadn’t gotten the memo that they should be avoiding each other. Mike was very excited to be going back to the States, and Micky was the reason he was excited. Which meant that Micky got to hear about Mike being excited. Which he actually liked hearing, because when Mike got excited, he was frankly pretty adorable for being a grown man who had a patented scowl and a right hook that left their hotel sighing in relief that they’d be flying back to America.

It was made even worse by the fact that it was a topic Micky couldn’t turn down. When Mike said, “Man, I can’t _wait_ to see Jimi play. I’m gonna be standing so close I go deaf.”

Well, he had to agree it would be a wonderful last thing to hear.

Micky had never really thought about being a music producer, but he _knew_ he wanted to be in on the ground floor of Jimi Hendrix being big. He knew he wanted to promote that kind of talent. If he had the skill and wherewithal for management, he would’ve pumped his money into Jimi, himself. He would have just thrown thousands at him and said ‘Here you go! Have at it!’

He didn’t have that kind of mind. He couldn’t even get himself a good contract, never mind working one out for anyone else. Nor did he have that kind of clout in the industry—not as far as producing went. What he did have was the ability to invite an extremely talented man to perform headlining an internationally-recognized band.

Maybe he should have asked the guys before he’d done it, but he’d been so enamored that he hadn’t even thought about the fact he’d done it until he’d run into Mike. It had been serendipitous, when Mike told him about a wonderful guitar player he’d heard and Micky got to laugh and say, “That guy plays guitar with his teeth! Wait’ll you see it—You’re _gonna_ see it! I talked to him, he said he’d open for us!”

He had talked to Mike about Jimi all night long, the night that he’d gotten Jimi to agree to open for them.

And he talked to Mike all night long the evening before they went back to America.

“I’ve never heard anything like it, Mick.”

“Me, neither. He’s a nice guy. You’re gonna like him. He’s shy, like me.”

Mike gave him a smile. “Shy like you, or _shy_ like you?” he asked.

“Shy like me,” Micky returned, catching the meaning, that Mike didn’t know if he was making a joke or not. “Like when it’s just you and me.” He was quieter when they were alone together. When he wasn’t bolstered into bouncing off the walls. He could be soft and sincere when he had anyone alone, but he’d learned the hard way that he had to be _loud_ and sincere when in a crowd. It wasn’t lying, but it was acting, to a point. Even Bob and Bert had ignored him in favor of stacking cups and talking to themselves until he’d forced his way in, and they’d been the ones wanting to talk to _him_ to audition for the show.

Such was life.

“Well, then, I’ll like him plenty,” Mike agreed.

Micky’s heart caught in his throat. He wanted to shoot another shot. Make another offer, one that Mike couldn’t turn down. “Yeah?” he asked. He was feeling childish. He wanted to hear Mike just say it, outright, ‘I like you’.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “What songs did you hear him play, when you saw him?”

Micky frowned and picked at the thread on his cuff. “I heard the one you did. _Hey, Joe_. Most of ‘em, hmm. I remember them. But, you know, I might as well play _Purple People Eater_ again, that’s how it’d sound if I tried doin’ any of that on guitar.”

Mike understood that in a way few people might. He’d told Mike how his first tour was at eleven years old, singing for a crowd of_ Circus Boy_ fans. Mike laughed. “Man, that’s how anyone’d sound. He’s in a league of his own.”

“Yeah, he is. You know….”

Mike hummed, lifting it up in question as he lay down on Micky’s bed.

“There’s one I dug. I hope he plays it. Give me a second. I’ll see if I can remember how it goes, I’ll sing it, so you can listen for it.”

“All right.” Mike shut his eyes. He crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his hands on his stomach.

Micky looked at him and the song came easy to his mind. The words flooded through him, all at once and only briefly without order. He sorted through the words and put them right, easy to grasp, easy to sing. He could feel the guitar fill his heart through memory alone. He thought he’d understood music before, but he realized that he didn’t. The music, the lyrics, Jimi’s voice. All of it, all of it was what he was feeling right then, right there, sitting in the bed alone with Mike. That was what it was. The song coursed through him like blood. Of course he knew it, because it was a part of him. Felt like it had always been a part of him, just waiting to see Mike to awaken it. It would stay with him until he was dead and buried.

“How’s the song go, Mick?” Mike asked. His voice was such that Micky thought maybe he’d dozed off for a second.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s a shame.”

A beat of nothing. Then, “I think he’ll be jealous of you,” Micky said.

“He hasn’t got a damn thing to be jealous of.” Mike didn’t open his eyes, but his brows furrowed and his voice got hot.

“I mean,” Micky corrected, soothingly, like a mother with a lullaby, “I think he’ll respect you.”

He didn’t really conflate the two. ‘Jealous’ was just a more natural word than ‘respect’, somehow. Almost a funnier one, a lighter one, one meant to be said in casual conversation instead of deep ones. He laid down next to Mike. He wasn’t sure if it was his presence or the idea of respect from someone like Jimi Hendrix that made Mike open his eyes. “Jealous is more likely,” Mike replied. Micky could tell he was trying for his wry sense of humor, but there was something very sad there. Most people, even most deeply talented people, were jealous of their rise to fame.

Most people, even most deeply talented people, respected them. Stephen Stills had already called them all up and said thank you for the help and inspiration for the album they hoped would be out sometime soon. November or December, maybe. Look at the record, you’ll see your names, he’d said.

“No, it’s not. Everyone in the scene respects you. Not everyone likes you, but they all respect you.” He paused, then added, “They all like me, but they don’t all respect me. You got the one you want.” He mostly thought he’d gotten the one he wanted, too. But Mike was starting to sell him on this idea of musical integrity, on the idea of meaning more than being a nice song to listen to. Most local folks didn’t know he’d shifted to Mike’s side on it and called him wishy-washy to his face; they respected the band, they respected Mike, but they didn’t respect his position. He didn’t think there was anything worse said behind his back, but he knew they easily could have. They didn’t because they liked him and because he wasn’t a complete hack—he could sing beautifully, he could play guitar and piano adeptly, he could play the drums in a practical way if not an emotional one, and he was learning to write songs under Mike’s tutelage. That all gave him a pass from being anything worse than a fence-sitter.

He slid an arm over Mike’s waist. Mike let him in, opened up for him and drew him in for an embrace.

Mike kissed the top of his head.

Micky’s body used all its heat on a fast-burning flush, leaving him cold once it extinguished. He curled his fingers into Mike’s clothes. Kissed Mike’s cheek and wished he had the courage to miss and catch his mouth instead. But he didn’t escalate it and neither did Mike.

“I do, sometimes,” Mike agreed.

Micky would’ve liked to think Mike was talking about them laying together like this, but he knew he wasn’t. He was just being self-aware enough to acknowledge what was enough power, what was enough respect, what respect even looked like at all, depended on how he felt about himself any given day. Not that Mike would say that much out loud. But they both knew it.

They weren’t stoned. They weren’t even drunk. This was just them. They’d all touch each other’s faces. They’d all kiss each other and say ‘I love you’ if they were especially overcome. They’d all sit on each other’s laps. Part of it was the nature of the scene, but part of it was just the nature of them, collectively and individuals. It was remarkably innocent, truth be told.

Most of the time, anyway. At least once when they were all stoned together, Davy had sat in Micky’s lap and shifted around purposefully, just enough that he started getting hard, then jumped off all scandalized and yelled at him. That wasn’t particularly innocent, but somehow it still wasn’t actually _sexual._ Wasn’t a real cocktease despite being intentional. It was just meant to embarrass him over the fact anything at all could get him going. He and Davy had that kind of relationship. One of those kinds that were too full of in-jokes and inappropriate behavior to explain to anyone properly.

Sitting, listening to Mike’s heart with Mike’s arm wrapped around his shoulders felt far more scandalous.

“Did I tell you he set his guitar on fire?” Micky asked abruptly. “In Monterey?” He hadn’t the first time Micky had seen him, though Mike hadn’t ever seen him at all and didn’t need the clarification.

Mike hummed soft and amused. “A few times, Mick. A few hundred times.”

Micky laughed. “You think we could work that into our shows?”

“You want to set your drums on fire?”

“No,” Micky said. He paused. “Do you think we could? It would look amazing with the--”

“You’d burn the stage down, babe.”

+++

He started regretting the meeting they’d had before going on tour all over again. He had a habit of pining once he got stuck on someone, just like Davy did. The problem was he’d chewed Davy out for pining, and Davy wouldn’t forget it if Micky picked him to spill his guts to. He knew that Davy would spend the entire conversation being _Oh, really? Oh, you’re stuck on someone, are you? Really should _**_get over that_**_ shouldn’t you? Hmmm?_ And that would only be matched by hounding him over who the person was. He usually wouldn’t have minded, but it was considerably less charming if you wanted real advice.

Besides which, he didn’t know if it was a good idea to discuss it with Davy. Even when Micky said a girl had fingered him, Davy had scattered his share of comments through the next few days. Some were pretty funny. Some were a little hurtful. Micky had laughed at all of them, so it was probably his fault for encouraging it. Either way he couldn’t imagine what Davy would think if he found out he’d rather have Mike’s big cock up his ass instead of a pretty woman’s slim fingers. Not that he would ever tell Davy that directly, on purpose, but Davy had a way of getting things out of him. Once he spilled a little, Davy would crack him open and it’d be like busting the Hoover Dam.

Not that any of them were what he’d call homophobic. At least no more so than he was himself; he often got uneasy when men made advances, so maybe he couldn’t make that call. Oh, he never felt that way with Peter’s friends, the hippie people who would offer him something tantric. Micky had accepted head from one of those guys once and had no idea how the guy didn’t get lockjaw. Or maybe he had, and that was why he’d stayed down there for so long. That was back when Micky had only smoked weed. He thought he might’ve liked it better nowadays, when he’d take some LSD and hours turned to minutes and minutes to hours.

Regardless, he was a lot more reluctant with the other men who’d had a go at him in California. The Hollywood businessmen types who weren’t so open about their interests. He knew if those men well and truly wanted their way with him, they could have it. He was pretty average in the strength department, was skinny, and had a leg that burned white hot when he ran. On top of that, he wasn’t much of a fighter. He’d scrap with Davy, but there was never any meaning to that. There was never any cost if he lost. Those particular circles in L.A. had men who touted peace and love but had a head full of something being owed to them. That was a dangerous combination.

He knew which kind of men needed to be avoided. He’d picked up on that when he was a child and there were certain guys who would make his mother squeeze his hand extra tight when they walked by them. He was lucky for that brand of insulation, because there were many things he was naïve to but this was one abuse he was aware of despite never having been burned by it. There were only one or two occasions when he’d been slightly singed.

Davy tended to approach it very much the way he did. Not that Davy ever hooked up with men at Peter’s parties, but he’d go to those parties and watch all of it with the same expression, no disgust, and only became guarded when power became a dynamic. He, too, knew all about men who were so good at playing their touches as innocent that they’d get you to doubt yourself for thinking they were anything but.

And yet, and yet.

Micky still thought of those jokes, those little barbs made even about a girl’s fingers up his ass. And he thought that maybe Davy would _start_ getting disgusted if something queer struck too close to home. So far it was easy enough to avoid anything they didn’t want to be a part of. Even Peter didn’t sleep with men, himself, even if he encouraged them doing so with other men at his home. This would be different. He and Davy couldn’t avoid each other any more than he could avoid Mike.

That left Peter. Peter would have been a good choice even if he were back in California surrounded by friends and family, really. Peter was free-wheeling, and he didn’t pass much judgement when it came to sexual expression. So long as people were in a frame of mind to consent, Peter was all for it. 

Peter wouldn’t make fun of him for it, not the way he knew Davy would.

Peter wouldn’t stop talking to him over it, either, not the way he feared Davy might.

But he wasn’t convinced that Peter wouldn’t turn it into another Mike versus Peter thing. Or worse, turn it into the reason Micky had started taking Mike’s side more clearly when creative differences came up. Especially since that assessment might not be entirely wrong.

He couldn’t think about hiding the ‘Mike’ aspect of it from Peter, either, but for a different reason entirely. Where Davy would weasel all kinds of information from him just by being so Goddamn charming, he often felt the need to be very clear and literal with Peter. Peter was so set in his own worldview that not giving him every last bit of information often made their conversations confusing if not all out frustrating. That was usually okay, because when he wasn’t frustrated by their conversations, he tended to feel enlightened. So he’d learned to just get his meaning out from the jump to get past the parts of the conversations that would make him grumpy.

He didn’t know what difference it would make if he told Peter he wanted a Generic Cock up his ass instead of Mike’s Cock (copyright Robert Michael Nesmith) , but he had the hunch that it would make the response different _somehow_. The things he thought didn’t matter always did, with Peter.

He mulled on this a bit on their flight back to America, but mostly he just slept on the plane with a copy of Playboy spread over his face to keep his eyes covered. Traveling always wiped him out, and having some great debate with himself over romantic things did nothing to keep him awake.

He’d managed to perk up just before the plane landed. He was glad for it, because it was an ache in his leg instead of getting close to their destination that had woken him up.

“Ah, Florida!” he declared, popping to his feet the second the plane touched down. “California’s copycat little brother. Instead of beautiful land, we have disgusting marshes. Instead of tennis, we’ve got gator wrastlin’.” He actually quite liked Florida and would never say such things outside of the audience he had now, never wanting to insult his fanbase. But there’d always been a sort of rivalry between the two states, simply by way of being popular vacation destinations for beach and sun.

“We’ll get a standing ovation at the bingo halls,” Davy said, elbowing Micky in the ribs.

Micky snickered giddily, half from amusement and half actually being tickled. “Hey, man. Some of those grandmas still have it. Wait until they take out their dentures, you dig?”

“I’ll let you have ‘em. Your date having a couple’a cataracts won’t hurt anything.” He held up a hand to mime not being able to see Micky’s face. “Much better!”

Micky knocked Davy’s hand away. “They always got those little candies in their purses. The caramel ones? Outasite. I’d do anything for one of those little candies.”

“Fellas,” Mike cut in, tone sharp. “We’re here to corrupt the youth. We’ll get to the elderly next year. Get a move on.”

Micky giggled at that. He hated it, too, because it came out exactly the way it did when he’d laughed at Barbara Hoffland’s jokes in the eleventh grade. It was the kind of laugh that said _I’d die for you_.

“Who’s corrupting?” Peter asked. “We’re enriching the youth. And we’re giving nosy parents something to complain about. Everybody’s happy.”

They all headed to step off the plane, ready to look bouncy and excitable.

Micky did his best to ignore Mike’s hand settling in the crook of his back, guiding him down the aisle.

+++

Jimi met up with them at their hotel that night. He came to Micky’s room and sat on one of the beds—They each had their own room, but they all had two beds, for some reason, _just_ like Lucy and Ricky. Maybe he could invite Mike to spend the night that way, after all.

Mike sat right next to him and listened for a while, as Jimi played guitar. Davy and Peter were standing off to the side, grinning ear to ear. Micky was zipping around the room snapping photographs from every angle he could.

When Mike asked, “Would you mind playing something I wrote?” it was like a kid handing his crush a Valentine. Just the cutest thing Micky had seen in his entire life, full of embarrassment and reverie. He would never let Mike live it down.

It was matched with Jimi’s own face of embarrassment. “I don’t know how to read, like that. I just play it how it’s in my head.”

Despite the tone saying it was something he was ashamed of, Mike’s eyes lit up with even more adoration. “That’s all right. I’ll play it, and you can—if you don’t mind—”

Jimi nodded his head. “I’d love to.”

“I wouldn’t’a learned it, myself, if I didn’t need a way to meet girls,” Mike continued as he tuned his guitar. “You ever meet a folk singer, you can bet he looked in the mirror one day and decided he needed a leg up.” He strummed a bit. “We’re all ugly as sin. Ain’t that right, Peter?”

“The ugliest,” Peter agreed emphatically.

Jimi laughed a little. Even his laugh sounded shy. Warm and friendly.

He let Mike play through his song first. The second go around he played right alongside him, lighting fire to the strings with his fingers. It was no wonder he had to set the whole guitar ablaze at the end of his shows. It was just letting the audience see what they’d been hearing all evening long.

Peter joined in soon enough. He was better at playing off-the-cuff than Mike was, though Mike was no slouch. And given that Mike knew the song like it was his own child, he still had a certain advantage that no one else would ever have.

They all sounded so beautiful. So beautiful that Micky couldn’t contain it. He stopped taking pictures because he was too giddy, instead clutching at his chest like he was having a heart attack and was going to keel over any second. He had actual tears running down his cheeks by the time they’d finished the song together.

“This is gonna be the best tour the world has ever seen,” he declared very dramatically, but very earnestly. He believed it with all his heart that between them and Jimi, there’d be no show like it on Earth.


	7. July 8: Florida

They watched as Jimi and his band practiced together, before they went to their first show. Neither Micky nor Davy could see any flaws in the performance and simply gushed, even putting on an act of it, falling all over each other to fawn. Mike and Peter didn’t do that. They both offered some critiques, since Jimi had asked specifically for them. Peter’s were legitimate and came easily, like he was truly talking to a peer. Peter was absolutely the sort to get starstruck just like the rest of them, but he knew music inside out and backwards. He knew nearly a dozen instruments to an expert level, and on a technical level he could match Jimi’s skill if not surpass it. He knew that, too. He wasn’t one to brag, actually quite hated bragging, but he was a strong believer in self-confidence. Self-affirmation.

The rest of them didn’t have this level of confidence. Mike gave Jimi a note or two, but it came only with great searching and reluctance. He could see the little tweaks Jimi could improve, but there was a lingering thought that Jimi would blow him off for not being to the level worthy of criticizing. He was surprised when Jimi furrowed his brows and nodded his head. First and foremost, he was surprised that Jimi didn’t get angry. But he was more surprised that he didn’t find the agreement patronizing. He had the idea Jimi would actually take the advice. He wasn’t sure what to make of someone like Jimi seeing him as a contemporary, someone with any authority to listen to.

They stayed talking until they had to pack the instruments up and get ready for the show.

Even then, Mike found himself reluctant to go to his own room. He was ready enough. He’d already been dressed for the show for hours. He’d already checked and re-checked their equipment hours ago. They hadn’t even had a soundcheck yet and he knew it would come up fine, because he’d pored over everything they had. Every wire, uncrimped. Every surface, undented. He’d double-checked all of their guitars personally. He’d changed out one of his own strings just because it looked a little _too_ worn. He’d let Peter check the drums, but that was only because Peter could get more out of looking without pulling everything out. Whether Peter was giving him a little pat on the head and indulging him or actually looking was hard to say, but he leaned towards the latter.

It was the first time they’d be playing following Jimi, and there’d be nothing worse than if the main act couldn’t tread water while the opening act swam easy backstrokes. He went to Micky’s room instead of his own, and sat on the bed that Micky hadn’t laid his clothes out on. He couldn’t believe Micky wasn’t dressed already, but neither was Peter. Only Davy had been prepared for ages, and that had nothing to do with the show. That was just him.

Micky gave him a look that unnerved him only because he couldn’t actually read it. He could count the times that he couldn’t read Micky on hands and have fingers left to spare. One of those times had been on tour. But he didn’t ask after it. He didn’t say anything at all. Micky just had a comforting type of energy for him, and he wanted to be in it. He didn’t care about talking.

“You need something, babe?” Micky asked. It rode the line between actual curiosity and annoyance, close enough to the latter that Mike thought about leaving.

“No,” Mike said.

That two-letter word must have said a lot. Micky let out a breath and he softened right away. “You’re nervous,” he said as he started undressing.

“I’m scared shitless,” Mike corrected.

Micky laughed as expected, which was the only reason Mike had admitted it. “Mike,” he said. He paused and went to stand in front of him. He’d gotten his shirt off and his pants undone, unzipped but not taken off. “I asked Jimi to join us because I thought he’d be a fantastic complement.” He rested a hand on Mike’s cheek, slid it to settle on his shoulder. “And because I wanted to see him play without having to pay admission,” he admitted quietly, with a gentle smile.

Mike huffed out a soft laugh.

Micky continued. “If I’d been playing drums for Jimi and saw you in Monterey, I would’ve asked you to open for us.” Micky was the kind to coddle and placate. If he could spare emotions he would, but Mike also knew when he was doing that. He wasn’t, right then. He was being plain and honest. “You’re a different bag, man. That doesn’t mean you’re worse. You’re something special.”

He squeezed Mike’s shoulder.

“What if you’d seen yourself?” Mike asked, his mind changing tracks from whatever self-pitying he’d been doing. He needed to get out of moping and turn it into something practical. What he’d noticed with Jimi wasn’t just his music. It was his _presence_, stunning and electrifying. He had an exhilarating stage presence. That was something he could change in the band. It was something he could improve with Micky’s help.

Micky frowned. He moved his hand away and stepped back to start dressing again. “I don’t like that question, Mike,” he said. His voice was firm but soft.

“I didn’t think you would.”

He was glad that he was talking to Micky. If he’d been talking to Peter or Davy, they would’ve taken the statement as combative. And it was combative, but not _against_ Micky. And Micky understood that. Of course, had he asked Peter or Davy they would’ve answered Mike from the start. But it was the understanding that Mike appreciated, not the answer.

Micky harrumphed a little and continued dressing. He put his fresh shirt on. Put his fresh pants on. But Mike knew that he would answer, and he did before he got around to putting on his shoes.

“I’m not a solo act. I never got anywhere, putting out my own music. So I would’ve—” He cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice, “Boo! Tsss! Rhubarbrhubarbrhubarb Get off the stage before we get the cane, see!” Save for the little in-joke of ‘rhubarbing’, his voice was fixed in the 1920s, somewhere between a gangster and a newsie. He didn’t nail either of these accents exactly. Mike would’ve laughed at the bit anyway, if it didn’t frustrate him so much.

“We need to move you up front,” Mike said abruptly.

Micky’s hands fell from his mouth. His bit stopped suddenly. “Up—up front?” he sounded more confused than surprised. Mike didn’t know why, really. It wasn’t a conversation they’d had before, but he’d sown a few seeds for it. “Up front where?”

“Up front, on stage. With Davy. Being front and center.”

“You want me to move the drums to the center of the stage?”

“Don’t be dumb,” Mike said sharply. Though he didn’t really mean ‘dumb’. He just meant he knew that Micky was trying to obfuscate the point with jokes that made the idea sound silly. He was luckier still, that Micky understood _that _and didn’t immediately tell him to get lost. Instead, Micky gave him a beat of silence to restate it nicer, “Don’t be obtuse, Micky.”

It helped nothing.

“Okay, I won’t be obtuse. I’ll be acute. No, Davy’s acute, maybe a para—”

Micky’s words were getting fast and desperate.

Mike’s did it one better: “Micky, _please_.”

He wasn’t much for ‘pleases’ when it came to requests like this. Or at all, really, outside of everyday favors of the, ‘do you want a glass of water?’ ‘yes, please, thank you’ variety. Because that’s what they were, favors; there was indebtedness tied up in the word ‘please’ and he only liked using it if he knew he could pay the cost.

He didn’t know if he could afford this one. It was a small ask for most, to just request a normal conversation instead of something glib. But he knew the insecurities he was laying bear, cutting open and laying his hands on the guts of. He knew it was one of the bigger favors he’d asked.

Micky looked at him for a long moment with puppy dog eyes. But slowly, his face settled and he acquiesced. “All right, Mike.” He sighed. “I told you I’d back your creative ideas, anyway. I’m not… I’m not _backing_ this one, but I’ll listen to it. So what’s your idea?”

“You and Davy be up front and sing. All the songs, like the way you do with your solo. They eat it up when you’re dancing around up there.”

Micky squirmed. He must’ve had an objection. It looked like he had one. But he didn’t say it right off and instead asked, “Who’d play the drums?” His voice sounded just the way people did at the end of a long game of chess. _Checkmate._

“Peter can play them,” Mike offered. He would’ve suggested Davy since Davy could play the drums just fine, but Davy wanted to be a front man. Davy knew what his primary strength was. That strength was being front and center, smiling to the crowd and singing loud but intimate, like it was a love letter written especially for every single, individual person there. Even if Davy hadn’t been strong at it, he was clever in knowing that if anyone had staying power it was the face of the band. That was the recognition factor. “Pete picks up quick. He’d probably end up better than you on the drums, anyhow.”

“You’ve got a funny way of buttering a guy up,” Micky informed, a little sourly.

Mike could understand getting upset at some of the things he’d said, but that wasn’t one of them. “I’m not trying to butter you up. I’m telling you facts. Fact is, Peter would play drums better than you. Fact also is, you’d be worth more in the front than Peter. Or me. Maybe even more than Davy.”

“Davy won’t switch out for _anyone_ to be up front.”

“I know he wouldn’t. That’s why I said Peter.”

“You tell Peter to go play drums, he’ll quit the band,” Micky warned.

Mike stood at that. His first thought was, a little bitterly, _Let him. _The words were hot in his head, fire that almost blinded him. He went and grabbed Micky firmly by the arms. Shook him a little. Micky startled and put his hands up, pressed them against Mike’s chest but didn’t push him away.

“Jesus fucking Christ, one-track mind, ‘who’ll play the drums’!” Mike snapped, like that wasn’t an important question. Like he wasn’t getting ahead of himself going beyond that before working it out. “_I’ll_ play the drums. If you go up front, I’ll play the God-damned drums.”

“You’re serious?”

“Man, I don’t do nothing by the amp anyway, just play guitar and stand around with my thumb up my ass. You’d play guitar and sing and God knows what else.”

Micky’s eyebrows furrowed. His eyes darted, taking in Mike’s entire face like he could find something hidden there. There was often something hidden in Mike, but there wasn’t this time. “It means that much to you?” He was legitimately confounded.

Mike let Micky go, but grabbed him up again when he realized the motion was too abrupt and it would make Micky stagger back. He held him until he knew that Micky had secured his footing again in his own right, then released him slowly. “It means that much,” he agreed. Personally, he didn’t know what ‘that much’ was. He didn’t know what Micky thought he’d be giving up. He cared about having his music, his emotions, heard. Having his lyrics heard. He could do that anywhere on stage. And quite frankly Micky played guitar better than he did the drums; he’d been playing since he was a child, for one, but more than that it was clear he liked it better. Mike still thought he could outpace him on finger-work, and probably on the emotionality of playing, but there wasn’t as big a discrepancy as there were other places. Whatever Mike would be giving up, he knew he’d be getting the better end of the bargain by having Micky go up front.

Micky opened his mouth to speak.

Davy swung open the door. “All right, fellas, time for us to head out!” he called out to them happily.

Both Micky and Mike whipped their heads around to look at him.

“I’ve just got to put my shoes on,” Micky said. It was to Davy, but he’d gone back to looking at Mike.

“No time, Skillet-face!” Davy said happily. “No one’ll see your feet, anyway. And if they do—well, with how dirty they are, they won’t know the difference—”

“Ha, ha! Take a hike, Jones!” Micky snapped back, this time looking at Davy, pulling a face. But he wasn’t really mad.

Mike found that he _was _mad, but not at Davy. Davy was just right; they wouldn’t see Micky’s feet. They wouldn’t see anything but his head and arms. They’d get half the experience. A quarter of the experience, because even then it wasn’t like Micky could move, dance around any. He was good, at shuffling dances. It made Mike think a little of buck-and-wing dancing; modern soft-shoe but a little more leg-centric than modern dances, something that made it closer to vaudevillian.

Davy laughed. “Just hurry up, will ya?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before turning and walking away from them.

Micky didn’t make any last-minute quips after Davy’s retreating back. He just went and put his shoes on. “We’ll talk about this after the show, okay, Mike?” he asked.

Mike nodded his head. He could tell Micky was on the edge of caving. He felt very much like he’d won something.

“Tonight,” he agreed. He put his hand on Micky’s cheek and smiled at him softly. He felt a little like kissing him goodbye, which was a foolish desire because it wasn’t a goodbye at all; they were headed to the same destination, riding in the same car.

And, well, he didn’t misread Micky twice in one night. Micky stared back at him with eyes eager and hungry. In a rush he was glad that Micky would be sitting at the drums that night, even if the audience would be missing out. He knew if he saw Micky giving them the full experience, instead of just a quarter, he’d be seeing the expression beneath him instead of in front of him.

+++

As it happened, they didn’t talk about it that night. And as it happened, Mike didn’t need to worry about being a poor follow-up band. Because Jimi Hendrix started getting booed right in the middle of his first song.

Sitting around listening themselves, more wanting to be an audience to Jimi than to get ready for their own set, it was the first time Mike had ever heard Micky insult their fans with any seriousness. He’d joke now and then, but even that he often felt guilty about. One had made the bizarre choice of hurling a lightbulb at him and had struck him right in the head, and even that had gotten more confusion than anger. “Stupid little shits, wouldn’t know good music if it punched them in the fucking face. Why are we bothering?” One part anger, one part existential crisis. Two for the price of one.

Peter was angry, too, but it had a much broader scope. Racial injustices. Cultural misunderstandings. Lifestyle misunderstandings, for Jimi was much harder than they were, came on much stronger. The things he was mad about at that moment were things he was often mad about. Things he was used to being mad about. His anger wasn’t faked, but it was honed.

They were calling for Davy, and while Mike would have thought that would thrill Davy, it just made him aware that sometimes he didn’t hold him in the regard he deserved. Davy was beet red, with embarrassment more than anger. The fans were all of theirs, but at that moment they were his above everyone else’s, and he felt it maybe more astutely than any of them. He excused himself a little, to move closer to where Jimi would be stepping off, so that he could apologize straight away.

Mike, who was angry often enough to have gotten a reputation for it, was just dumbstruck. Literally, struck dumb enough he couldn’t comprehend it. The situation and Micky’s response to it both stupefied him. He actually found himself murmuring something soothing to Micky to try and get him back, focused for their own songs, his hand curved around the nape of Micky’s neck.

They got it together enough to play their set. Micky walked off before they took their usual bows, did their kissing-air, thank-you-and-good-night routine, but they were well-received. It was a very hollow victory.

They all apologized after the show. Jimi was very gracious about the whole thing. He was far more understanding than Mike would have been, talking about how their people expected something different than his own did.

They all promised it would get better the next show. Jimi gave them the sort of smile that was more for their sake than his, but he said he suspected it’d be better once they got to New York. He was from Seattle, but he connected to New York. They all deluded themselves for the sake of it. New York was a long time off, and even there they weren’t going to get his audience. He identified with Harlem, and they would never draw a Harlem crowd. But in a more positive kind of way, they also knew that it was the luck of the draw. The first vocal few were the ones that swayed a crowd. If he could get those early cheerers going, then he’d have the crowd on his side. And if he could get them, he wouldn’t lose them.

They all played a little. They all got a little high. Some got a lot high. Mike was with it enough to remember he’d wanted to talk to Micky some more, but by the time that thought occurred to him, Micky was passed out face-down on Jimi’s floor.

So instead he asked Jimi, “Is it all right if he stays here?” If it was any of their own rooms, he’d know the answer. Jimi seemed kind enough as a whole and fond enough of Micky in particular that Mike wasn’t worried about leaving him to be babysat by strangers. Still, that only held true if they didn’t think keeping some kind of half-eye on him was a burden.

Jimi smiled widely at him and reached out a hand. Mike took it. “We’ll take care of him,” he promised as they shook hands.

Mike didn’t know him very well—even high, Jimi was soft-spoken. But he trusted his word and relief settled on him like a warm blanket. He said his goodbyes and stepped out to go back to his own room.

He didn’t think Micky had taken anything he could go too far on; the drugs he liked best were the sorts most people touted as ‘safe’. Weed and acid, things Mike had never known anyone to have more than bad trips on. Mike had learned, however, not to assume he knew what other people took. Some rare nights he didn’t even assume he knew what he’d taken, himself. It was better to have a spotter if you were at all in the frame of mind to know that things could take a wrong turn somewhere.

Mike woke up a bit as he shut Jimi’s door behind him. Being on a coastal state always seemed to have more sobering temperatures at night than the ones inland. Something about being near the sea, something about the geography, made the sun feel warmer during the day and the breeze stiffer at night. It was the kind of thing he thought Micky could explain to him, and he considered asking about it tomorrow. He shifted his guitar on his back and let the walk to his room turn leisurely.

When he got back he didn’t do much of anything. He got a postcard and wrote _Aloha from Michael Nesmith_._ This room is very nice, don’t you think so? _and shut it up in the middle of the Bible in the nightstand. He liked amusing little things that no one would ever see. For how many rooms they were in, he’d never known anyone to get very far in a hotel’s Bible. He sat on his bed and played some songs, though he’d nearly the entire day for one reason or another and even as seasoned as he was, his fingers wanted a break from it. He sang the country songs he didn’t get to try much, being with the band he was with.

+++

It was three A.M. when Micky came into his room. Three-oh-three, actually. Mike checked his watch after setting down his guitar.

He hadn’t been asleep yet, but he thought he’d be there soon.

“I thought Jimi was watching you,” he said. His tone came out very paternal, like he might have to have a talk with Jimi later, even though he wasn’t really that concerned since Micky seemed just fine.

Micky got onto the foot of Mike’s bed and sat there cross-legged. It reminded Mike of a pet. He couldn’t decide between a dog or a cat; Micky had qualities of both.

“He walked me over,” Micky said, petting Mike’s bedsheet. “His hands feel like the sun.”

Mike almost wanted to do something silly like shout _Goodnight, Jimi!_ Or rush to the window and peek under the curtains and hope Jimi would get a laugh out of him staring at him bug-eyed. But it was too late, or too early, and Micky was too confusing. Though he had at least a bit of a grasp on the Micky element, since he knew what he was like on acid. The paranoia of his thoughts made him wonder just where Jimi’s sunny hands had touched, but his actual official guess was Jimi had quite literally walked him over, holding Micky’s hand the whole way to Mike’s room.

“Okay,” said Mike. “What for?” He didn’t think Jimi had shirked babysitting duty. If he had to bet money, it would have been on Micky begging to see him off and on until Jimi had caved to it. He was playing music, so he couldn’t fault Jimi for just standing back and making sure Micky made it inside fine, instead of actually going in himself.

Micky didn’t answer. Or at least it seemed that way. It took him a very long time to talk, and even then Mike wasn’t sure if his words were related or incidental. “Come here and hold my hand.”

Mike sighed but moved to the end of the bed opposite where he was sitting. He was about to say _what for_? Again, but Micky had either anticipated the answer or was only now answering the first time he’d asked it.

“I don’t want to lose you to another dimension.” He took both of Mike’s hands in his own.

Mike had seen Peter do this kind of thing sometimes, when he was being meditative.

“I’ve been playing guitar, Mick,” Mike answered. He’d been singing enough country that it came out twangy, gee-tar. “Music ties you to the dimension you’re on.” He was bullshitting, because he was often a good bullshitter. Especially with high people, sometimes talking nonsense confidently enough made them buy into it.

“No, it transcends you,” Micky corrected.

And, well, he wasn’t wrong, so it wasn’t even annoying he hadn’t taken the bait.

“You’ve got me now,” Mike rebounded. “Wherever we go will be together.”

“Okay,” Micky said.

He was starting to work out where Micky was in the trip. He sort of knew, anyway, given the time, but he didn’t know when the last hit had been. Didn’t even know how long Micky had been out of it on the floor. It was, maybe, a good time to try grounding him for the comedown, to edge out any of the brewing paranoia. “Focus on my hands, on how they feel. The callouses, the lines.” He broadened it a little and said, “Focus on me.”

Micky did. Was. Was very focused on him. Was staring at him, into him, eyes on his eyes, holding his gaze. Mike didn’t try to break it. Micky looked very pretty. Not handsome. He often looked handsome, but right then he was just pretty. His pupils were very big and very dark and his skin was flushed across the high ridges of his cheekbones. It made Mike think of illustrations in fairytales and the face of someone post-orgasmic. Otherworldly ecstasy.

Mike found himself very focused on Micky in return. Found himself thinking.

Micky smiled sweet at him and nodded his head very soft and serene. Before Mike could try and work out the meaning, Micky spelled it out right into his own mouth. Micky’s lips were parted against his, Micky’s body was pressed against his. All heat, real and created, engulfed him.

Before Mike had a chance to stop it, Micky did.

It took a very long time for Micky to explain himself. Or it felt that way. Mike found himself getting entangled in the strange time whorl that happened on trips. But he did explain it, when he was come down a bit more and had let go of Mike’s hands in favor of laying in his bed.

“We were talking, in our heads. You said you wanted to kiss me, and I wanted it, too. You tasted like rain. You said it wasn’t a good time, so we stopped.”

He made the stopping sound mutual, which surprised Mike, since only one of them had pulled away.

Mike didn't believe in personal vibrations. He didn't believe in telepathy, high or not. He didn't believe in auras or most the things Peter and his commune went on about. Micky was empathic and he knew that was the reason that he'd read his face so well, combined with the fact they'd been playing this game for a week. Being high made that all the easier to hone in on. And yet, those were the thoughts that had been in his head. The longing, the knowing. For a second, despite all his common sense, he believed Micky could read his mind.


	8. July 9: Florida, morning

Things were clearer in the light of day. That was what people said.

Micky had felt like he’d understood better when he was in the dark. He’d felt everything much more clearly with his mind addled with LSD. When Mike’s face was flickering, flickering, and the room was brightly colored and sliding all over. He could hear Mike talking mind-to-mind with him. Holding Mike’s hands, he could feel Mike’s soul in his fingertips. When they kissed, he felt them melting together, becoming one the way people talked about when they spoke of making love. Mike tasted like rain, the strong, soft, sweet way it tasted in the air. And on his end, he felt like dirt and grass and trees. He could feel the flowers inside himself being brought to life as everything Mike was washed over him. Gardens in bloom in spring.

It felt very easy to understand that way, when it was all emotions and technicolor pictures. He was feeling less sure once he had sleep between that and reality.

He turned his head a moment after he woke up. Mike was still asleep, but in the other bed. He wondered when Mike had moved. Maybe it was a hint that he should take, that Mike had moved at all.

Instead of a hint, it just felt like decency. It had happened to Micky once or twice, where a girl suddenly seemed too drunk to say yes and even her bed seemed like he was taking too much from her, so he’d slept on the floor instead.

He got up and crossed the room. When he was a child, he often went to fairs with his father and rode all of the rides. Going that way had especially been a treat when he’d been on _Circus Boy_. Oh, fair-hopping was part of business. That was where he’d play guitar and sing to kids a little younger to himself. But being able to go on Ferris wheels and sometimes eat a big pretzel—no chocolate, Micky, you’ll be up all night, but yes you can have a pretzel, or popcorn, only one—it was a nice thing. He’d often work twelve-hour days then, and getting to go on the roller-coaster was one of those few normal childhood experiences in the middle of on-the-road-tutoring, hot lights, and travel. He remembered the feeling of his stomach lifting high in his throat as the train crested the steep hill of the track. It was the exact feeling that came over him as he lifted Mike’s blanket and crawled into bed with him. It was a feeling of terror, excitement, and comfort, all at once.

Mike had dressed appropriately for bed. Or undressed appropriately. He was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. The only thing Micky had shucked were his shoes, and he was pretty sure Mike had taken those off for him after he’d fallen asleep. It meant he was wearing the iconic button-up from their TV show, being as that was the last outfit they’d changed into for the show the day before. The rest of the guys had changed one more time before going back to the hotel, but he’d been so pissed on Jimi’s behalf that he hadn’t even considered what he was wearing until that moment. To say the least, it was not his style, even without the big white buttons. “Mike,” he said. He whispered it, but couldn’t say why, since the goal was to wake him. He said it a little louder, “Mike.”

Mike startled groggily. His eyes rolled open but closed again once he took in Micky’s face.

Micky smiled. “I’m not usually up before you.”

“Well, it’s a shame to break the habit. Go back to sleep,” Mike countered, tongue sharp despite a yawn cutting through his words.

“We were supposed to talk last night,” Micky said. He didn’t really want to talk about that at all, but Mike liked talking shop. Actually, he couldn’t tell if Mike _liked_ talking band politics, but he sure as hell felt an obligation to do it. If Mike caught wind that some band decision was going on without him, he’d climb Mount Everest to try and stop it.

Mike’s eyes opened.

Micky bit his lip against a broad grin, pleased.

“All right, let’s talk about it.”

“Let’s talk about something else first.”

“Motherfucker.”

Micky laughed. “About last night. Is it a better time now?” He didn’t say _to kiss you_. But he didn’t need to. Even with the sleep still in Mike’s eyes, still rasping his voice and slowing his motions, he understood.

“I never said that,” Mike said. “Any of it. I never said any of it.”

Micky sighed. “I know it was all in my head. But I didn’t get it from nowhere.” That was a tough hand to play. He couldn’t prove it; Mike could just say he was full of shit.

He didn’t say that.

What he said was, “We aren’t talking about this, Mick.”

Micky stared at Mike for only a second or two. The moment felt so much longer than it was that he nearly felt high again. “We’re just gonna talk about where I’m at on stage?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about _that_.”

Mike stared at him. “So I can go back to sleep?”

“Man!” Micky reached out and pinched Mike’s arm, making him yelp. “You’re supposed to say ‘well awright, then, we can talk about both, pardner’!” It had seemed like a fair trade. Mike had made such a big deal about him not playing drums that he hadn’t thought he’d have to twist arms over it.

Mike put an arm over his head, covering his eyes. “Go away, son, you’re bothering me.”

Micky could see the soft tug at the corner of Mike’s mouth. He couldn’t tell if Mike had wanted to hide the smile or not. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Mike contemplatively. He could be called rash, sometimes. Bold, stupid, thoughtless, impulsive, foolhardy. He’d been called all of those things and more, for good and for bad. He didn’t have any proof that Mike wanted anything to do with him. There wasn’t anything concrete. There were just… looks. Looks and a feeling that Mike wanted this, too. That was nothing. He had more proof that Davy or Peter would have him.

Davy, who would make such raunchy jokes with him. Davy, who had lived with him and seen everything. Davy, his nearly-best-friend, who he’d shared a bed with on more than a few occasions. Whose warm body next to his had gotten him hard in his sleep more than once. Davy, who rolled his eyes and muttered insults or joking come-ons when he excused himself to go jack off in the bathroom after waking up. Which he always did on the rare times when it happened. He wasn’t going to waste an erection just because the pretty blonde girl in his dreams turned out to be Davy Jones sleeping next to him. That-- laying together and happily teasing over arousal—could be something.

Peter, who actively invited him to orgies and things. Free-loving Peter who’d seen him jerking off on a girl’s face once, at one of those parties in Peter’s own backyard. He'd gone to a few of those parties but never participated in any orgies; he always just asked one person to come off to the side with him. Peter who had told him he sounded nice when he came, and that he had a beautiful cock. He’d pulled a face at that, said, “Thanks…?” a little guardedly, not because of Peter, but because he still wasn’t used to parties like that, then—he’d never been in a position where just anybody could give those compliments even if they’d wanted to. It had felt like it was leading up to a punchline. That—being lewd in Peter’s backyard while Peter offered compliments on his cock—could be something.

Oh, Mike would kiss his cheek or the top of his head now and again. Mike was a touchy person for being so stoic. Mike would say ‘I love you’, if not often then in a way that Micky believed it. But Mike had never done anything like laugh at getting him horny or say how nice he sounded when he came. Mike had caught him fucking a groupie once and what _that_ asshole had done was _yodel_ to spoil the mood. Micky had laughed right into his date’s mouth, surprised. He had started to go soft, like he figured a lot of guys would if a yodeler appeared. But he’d turned his head and caught Mike’s eyes across the room and suddenly felt harder than he’d ever felt in his life. He couldn’t start moving again until Mike had walked out, because he thought he’d come the second he did, if Mike were still anywhere nearby.

The only provable difference was on his own end. He thought about touching the other guys, but mostly in the abstract. He didn’t think he’d do it. When he thought of touching Mike, it was in no way abstract. It was tangible. He wanted it. And it was easy to think that this wanting was why he thought Mike wanted him in return.

But he didn’t really believe that.

He decided to be stupid, bold, and reckless.

He slid in closer, slotting his thigh between Mike’s legs, pressing his chest against Mike’s own. “I’ll give you a head job if you talk to me after,” he whispered into Mike’s ear.

It was a thrilling relief how fast Mike hardened against his thigh.

Mike rolled him over fast, making Micky take in a sharp breath. Mike’s cock was suddenly against him much more intimately, pressed right against his own. He hadn’t been hard until that moment, but he couldn’t have kept from it after that even if he’d wanted to. Mike was laying on top of him, face-to-face, body-to-body, pinning his wrists to the mattress, and doing only the bare minimum to keep his entire weight from being atop him. 

“You want me to talk about this?” Mike punctuated the sentence with a sharp thrust of his hips.

Micky groaned. “Yeah, please, yes.” He wished he weren’t fully dressed.

“You want to know what I got to say about last night?”

Micky writhed beneath Mike. He nodded eagerly. He wanted to move against him properly, but Mike was pinning him, stopping anything but little desperate pumps. Even those would have been denied him were they on the floor; against a wall; anywhere but on the pliant mattress. He could move only because Mike had no way to stop him completely.

“You were high as a kite. You’ve _been_ high since we left California. Knock this shit off before I gotta make you.”

Mike loosened his grip on Micky’s wrists to let him go, though Micky didn’t take advantage of the freedom right away. He just tipped his head up and kissed Mike with more desperation than he knew what to do with. He thought hard, hoping maybe they could speak mind-to-mind like they had the night before, telling Mike just how badly he wanted him. Reassuring Mike that everything was okay.

Micky felt it again. He felt the nature, the beauty of life flowing through him in unearthly colors as he kissed Mike. What he’d seen while he was tripping on acid had been exactly what it was, sober.

Maybe Mike felt that, too. And maybe he heard the thoughts Micky sent his way. Maybe he didn’t. Whatever he felt was enough for him to part his lips and make Micky’s mouth open against his own.

“I wanted to blow you when you drove me home, before we left,” Micky informed breathlessly when they parted. He squirmed a bit. Mike was pressing so closely against him that he had to breathe in to fit his hand between them and grab Mike’s cock to stroke it through the fabric of Mike’s boxers. And even doing that hurt, knocking his fist against his own hip each stroke, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t, because Mike being so close to him this way also meant he felt the hitch in Mike’s breath run through him like it was his own.

Mike’s brows knitted. His eyes shut and his lips parted. His words were very pointed. “You smelled like skunk then, too.”

“Man, that’s ‘cause I didn’t change after I smoked_ with **you**_. And that was a lousy high, by the way. Are you seriously worried about this?” It sounded ludicrous. He maybe indulged too much, but not the way some people did. He wasn’t like Peter, who was mostly just a hippie pot-smoker but who once in a blue moon would go to the border to buy coke and definitely hit it harder than the rest of them. He didn’t even know what coke looked like, when it had to be sold at the border. He only knew it in lines, after it had already been doled out into powdery slivers. Individual instead of wholesale. Frankly he wasn’t even the biggest fan, then.

Of the group he was only a heavy user when held up directly to Mike. Mike smoked some, but usually came away with at least a veil of sobriety by the end of the night. He was more into pills, cigarettes, and beer, but Micky thought that was only to look professional. It was easy to look professional when your vices were doctor-ordered or socially acceptable.

Mike said nothing. His eyes shut tighter, to the point his entire face was affected. The way he would if Micky had pulled the curtains wide to let the sun wake him instead of like this.

“You feel good, baby,” Micky encouraged. “Come on. I’ve been thinking of sucking you off for so long. Weeks. Months. Lemme taste you.”

Mike let out a groan that was frustrated in more ways than one. “I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

“Yeah, don’t think, Mike.” He slid Mike’s cock through the fly of his boxers and ran his thumb over the head. The sound Mike made hit him on a molecular level. It was atomic. It was quantum mechanics, the heat of Mike making every microscopic part of him vibrate faster, faster, every last speck of dust he was made of on the edge of losing control. “Do you want me?” 

“Micky.” Mike’s laugh was dry almost to the point of being self-depreciating. “You’ve got a firm grasp on the obvious.”

Micky laughed in return. He loosened that firm grasp, stopping his motions for a moment to just lay and appreciate Mike. He said very seriously, not touching Mike at all to end any distraction, “Think after. We’ll talk after.”

Mike rolled away from him. He finally took the time to throw the covers aside, now that they’d rolled around in them enough to be more annoying than anything else. Despite what Micky had said, he could tell that Mike was still thinking. Thinking about thinking, probably. Thinking about if they should go ahead and talk now, or if it mattered anymore since they’d both gotten a little handsy. But Mike still had plausible deniability of some kind. He hadn’t really touched Micky in return, and Mike was the king of compartmentalization. Micky thought that if Mike cared to, he could walk himself back from whatever they’d gotten themselves into and only hold Micky responsible.

Micky wouldn’t bare that responsibility on his own unless he thought it’d save Mike’s sanity, but he could tell by the air that Mike was putting out that he shouldn’t just continue whatever he’d been doing, either. He shouldn’t just feel Mike’s body, kiss down his front without caring he was still clothed, and suck him off, no matter how much he wanted to. Separating had given Mike room to breathe. He needed to think for at least a moment, even if Micky didn’t.

It was another one of those beats that took only a few seconds, but felt like years before Mike reached his decision.

“Go and lock the door, huh, Mick?”

Micky put on his best Mad Scientist’s Assistant voice, sleazy with the words all drawn out, “_Yes_, master. Anything for _you_, master.” He got up and hobbled to the door, hunchbacked, although the strange gait just made him even more aware of how hard he was and how desperately he wanted to not be hard any longer.

“Man, if you say shit like that, you’re gonna have to use a different voice,” Mike informed, sitting up to lean against the headboard.

Micky started laughing as he locked the door but stopped when he turned and caught Mike’s eyes. There was a tenderness there that struck him like lightning. He was fixed in the spot, electric, buzzing.

Micky stripped on the way to the bed. He pulled the shirt off over his head and step-hopped out of his pants and boxers, getting free of it all just as he fell back into bed with Mike.

“Yes, master,” Micky repeated in his regular voice as he slipped down between Mike’s knees. He kissed and bit his way up Mike’s legs, his body thrumming with excitement when the skin quivered under his teeth. “Anything for you, master,” he said against Mike’s left thigh. And then he grabbed Mike by the hips, took Mike’s cock deep into his mouth, and couldn’t say anything anymore.

This wasn’t the kind of thing he’d practiced on. He had practiced when it came to girls. When it came to eating them out, fingering them, fucking them. He’d spent a lot of time getting it right because he’d been so worried about having nothing to offer them. He’d always had friends but had also always been ‘weird’ in school, in no small part because of school itself being weird. Homeschooling, skipping grades, going back and doing those grades all over again just to make sure he was on track with his peers. That hadn’t helped; it had just thrown him further off-kilter. Relationships had been strange until he’d started college and started to finally catch up. Sex bridged that gap. Knowing just what to do with his tongue, just when to roll his hips to get a girl screaming, was maybe not the healthiest way to value himself, but it had been one way until he started working on something better.

Men were something else. Men weren’t something he’d bothered with. He hadn’t experimented at all until he’d gone to Peter’s house and thought what the hell, and even that hadn’t been good enough to convince him he’d been missing out any. He didn’t know men.

But he knew Mike. He knew how Mike acted, when he was unaffected. He knew Mike’s habits. He was able to catch on quickly to what made Mike’s muscles tighten. What made Mike claw the sheets. What made him—

“_Micky_,”—

He could get used to hearing his name like that. Everything about Mike was a lesson in patience, and this was no exception: He suddenly understood tantric sex, nice slow blowjobs that had bored him even on the other end of things, before. He wanted to push Mike to the edge and guide him back away from it over and over, over and over until they were both exhausted. He didn’t, but it wasn’t for lack of interest. He was happy enough just getting Mike gasping every breath, feeling the tension in Mike’s hips as he struggled not to just fuck his mouth. He wouldn’t have stopped Mike if he’d tried it.

He swallowed when Mike came, but he still hadn’t been ready for it. He had to blink back tears as he struggled not to embarrass himself by coughing.

He embarrassed himself anyway: When he laid on the bed to catch his breath, Mike reached out, touched him, and he came, hips lifting, back-arching, at Mike’s fingertips before a fist could even tighten around his cock.

Just the same, Mike did wrap his hand around Micky’s cock and stroked him through the orgasm. It felt nicer that way, but that didn’t seem the point of it. It felt more like a show of goodwill; that for whatever else Mike was thinking about, it had nothing to do with a willingness to touch him. It was only proven further when Mike leaned in and kissed him very deliberately.

Micky hummed, satisfied, against Mike’s lips.

They laid together for a while in silence. Micky touched Mike’s body lazily, just letting his hands wander to get to know him. He was surprised at how familiar so much of Mike’s body was, just from grabbing Mike in shock during spooky scenes of the show, or how Mike’s hands felt on him from how Mike led him away when he was doing a singing-to-the-point-of-breakdown bit on the stage. The touches they’d shared that morning were new, but they were borne from something that had existed for a while.

“Do you think we should talk now?” he asked Mike eventually, his words pressed right into the dip of Mike’s collarbone.

“Depends what you want to talk about.”

“You know what I want to talk about,” Micky said. It all came out almost a sigh, exasperated. “Us. This.”

“No. Maybe later. I think I have to talk to Peter first.”

“Peter? About us?”

“Not exactly,” Mike said.

“Mike,” Micky said. He’d whipped from annoyed to confused, and had now regained the annoyance without losing the confusion.

“There’s a friend of Peter’s who I heard about a few months ago. That guy’s been on my mind a lot when I look at you. But he wasn’t any friend of mine, so maybe I don’t have a call to be thinking the things I’ve been thinking.”

“So you’re going to be talking to Peter about…me.”

“Micky, if I talk anymore to you now I’m going to be having a conversation before it’s due. We’ve done a lot of things prematurely this morning, already.”

Micky knew that the word ‘premature’ wasn’t a dig at how he’d finished, but instead their rendezvous as a whole. He wouldn’t have put it past Mike to use that wordplay specifically, though, so he sputtered a laugh and pressed his face in Mike’s chest. “Yeah, all right. Can I sit in with you and Pete, if you’re kind of talking about me?”

“It’ll only be about you to me, not to Peter. And you won’t like it either way, but you can listen in if you want.”

“I want to,” Micky said, but mostly just to be contrary because of how confused this conversation was making him. Mike was often right about things he didn’t like.

“Can we finish talking about moving you up front?”

Micky sat up and tut-tutted Mike, shaking his head. “That’s comin’ too early, too, Mike. We shouldn’t make any changes in the middle of a tour like that. We need to do it small sometime, so we can see how the audience would take it.” Audiences didn’t always take kindly to change after getting used to things a set way, and he knew that changing who played what was a massive upset for a band. He was a little glad that was the case, though. He’d rather be seated all the way in back than have thirteen thousand eyes on him for the entire show, waiting for him to screw up. He could wow an audience for a song or two, but he would bore them if he were the showman for the entire set. He didn’t want to talk about this with Mike because Mike had an entirely different opinion on his skillset, and it was hard to talk Mike out of things like that once his mind was made up. Micky was glad to have a practical reason to at least delay this idea.

He could tell that Mike was disappointed with that answer but could see the logic of it. So he smiled broadly and said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll do one show this tour with me up front and you playing all the drums, _if_ you can fuck me so hard I don’t want to sit at my set for two hours.” He doubted Mike would take him up on it, given their conversation, but there was no harm in the offer.

“You won’t want to dance around stage, then, neither,” Mike warned with a smile on his face.

“Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it?” Micky asked happily, offering to shake on it.

Mike laughed. He shook his head at the same time he shook Micky’s hand.


	9. July 9: Florida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of suicide and depression. Many components of this come from a period-specific viewpoint. Based to a degree off of a few different real events, but names involved are purposefully not disclosed.

Micky put on Mike’s clothes for their ride to the next show.

It was just for the ease of things, so Micky wouldn’t have to put on his own dirty clothes before going back to his hotel room, but Mike found that he liked the look quite a bit. Not that Micky ever looked bad in his own clothes, to Mike’s eye, which was admittedly untrained in fashion. He could pull off the low-level androgyny he went for, with bold prints and feminine blouses. But Mike’s clothes almost fit him better, in the purely classical sense, because when given the choice Micky often wore things that were too loose for him, and Mike did not. They’d stood around at the same tailor before, and Mike had heard Micky direct her with, “Maybe keep it out just a little, huh? It’s comfier.”

Mike suspected it was just another way that Micky liked to get lost in things that were big, bright, and flashy so that people didn’t look at _him_, as a being, for longer than a moment. But Mike was the sort who put quite a lot into how suits fitted him, personally, because when they were well and properly fitted they put out an air of authority. So maybe that was more his hang-up than Micky’s. Maybe Micky did just find them to be comfy when loose. They wore enough tight-fitting things for television that something loose sounded pretty good, sometimes.

The other aspect of it was more primal than cerebral. It was staking a claim to have Micky in his clothes. There was some kind of secret ownership to it that burned a low heat in Mike’s stomach. If Micky had been a woman, Mike would’ve pushed his own pants down Micky’s hips and fucked him raw against the wall before they left the hotel, each thrust saying _mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. _And they would have left with him knowing that his come was leaking out into Micky’s underwear, leaving him a mess for anyone else who tried to become a follow up act.

No, not if Micky had been a woman. If Micky hadn’t been Micky, in particular. Though some of his reservations came from Micky being a man, most didn’t. Mike knew plenty of people would disown him over what he’d done that morning, but he’d been tossed on his ear for less. And frankly while Californians thought him a Texan stereotype, Texans already thought he was queer for preferring music to the Air Force. The people who truly loved him would quietly, if hypocritically, overlook it like they did all his transgressions. And the people who would actually disown him or try to harm him over it would only bolster his position, if it did anything at all.

Mike could rarely be called naïve. Not in the way that the rest of the band were naïve, at the very least. But this was one way that youth, fame, fortune, and dumb luck had conspired to make him think that being morally right, and being entirely truthful to the events as he saw them— such as that having the same or different bodies mattered only in the technicalities of sex and not the mentalities—would make things turn out in his favor when it came down to the wire. He often recognized the naivete of others, but he very rarely could identify it in himself.

Mike didn’t actually try anything with Micky, but he couldn’t keep himself from murmuring what he had thought of in Micky’s ear. A shiver visibly went down Micky’s spine and sent goosebumps along his arms.

“Yeah, babe, make me yours,” Micky encouraged readily. He even went to undo his zipper, but Mike at least had the restraint to avoid the follow-through. Even if it was just because they didn’t have the time, and not for the better, personal reasons that ran through Mike’s head like a long list of credits at the end of a movie.

They played in Florida again that day. And that day, Jimi didn’t get booed off stage. He didn’t get the recognition that he deserved, but this didn’t surprise Mike any. The crowd could have screamed themselves mute and Mike wouldn’t have thought they’d given Jimi the respect he was owed.

They played their set in a much better mood than the day before. Mike found himself drifting across the stage to be close to Micky, to smile and make silly faces, flirting almost childishly.

Micky was far more blatant with it; he fell all over the stage at the end of _I Got A Woman_. He was on his knees when Mike went to gather him up and escort him to the side, just like all the nights before, and all the rehearsals before. But this time he turned a bit, without standing, as Mike approached his side. His eyes ran up Mike’s crotch and straight to Mike’s eyes, daring him to think of the tryst they’d had that morning while he stood in front of thousands of screaming fans.

Mike hauled Micky to his feet a little more violently than usual, before the blood that filled his ears could redirect.

+++

On their way walking over to Peter’s room after the show, Micky started talking to him about UFOs. “Man, imagine if they just landed in your yard and let you come with them to their faraway planet. Christ! Imagine the technology it would take to travel from someplace like, like, like Mars! Like real Martians! They could help us get to the moon! Oh, man. What language do you think they speak? Do you think they talk English? I know some Spanish…”

“I think it’s whatever you imagine it to be.”

“Come on! You don’t believe in UFOs?” Micky demanded.

“I don’t believe in Martians,” Mike corrected. “A funny-looking bird could be a UFO until a smart fellow in a lab coat works out what it is. Then it’s just an ‘FO’.”

He was astonished that in this case, Micky wasn’t high on anything save for the thrilling experience of playing to an adoring crowd. He wished that he’d just led Micky back to his hotel room and fucked him, though he was trying to hold off from doing that. He would have liked to sit down and just talk a bit with him, too. Post-show was a great mindset to be in, especially knowing Micky wasn’t inebriated and was just himself, and he was sure it’d get spoiled by talking to Peter.

Micky clucked his tongue, though Mike could tell he was as amused as he was annoyed. “You’re no fun.”

“We’ll see.”

“Oh? You want Pete to teach us some tricks? I bet he’s got the Kama Sutra.”

“I’ve got plenty of tricks without Peter.”

“_Oh_?”

Micky sounded delighted. Mike shot him a glance to let him know he was playing a little too close to the fire, and Micky put up his hands in a way that said ‘sorry, sorry’. 

Mike drew up short to knocking on Peter’s door. When Micky lifted a fist to do it himself, Mike put out his arm to stop him.

Micky frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Mike said.

He was struck by the fact that this was a terrible idea. Once he committed to an idea, he did so fully. And he rarely, if ever, admitted to it being a mistake afterwards. But he didn’t often get the idea that it was a mistake right in the middle, when he still had a chance to turn around.

“So…I can knock?” Micky asked carefully.

Mike pulled a face as he looked at the door. He was tempted to suggest turning around and going to his room to do something far more fun, but that was only half of the interest in it. The other half was because he didn’t think Micky would question him changing his mind if sex were the reason.

Mike knocked on the door rather than answer.

After a moment Peter came to the door shirtless and with a blunt in his hand.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Mike said as plainly as he could, not bothering with hellos. At least that informality had nothing to do with his relationship with Peter. If he said ‘hello’ every time he saw one of his bandmates it would take up a good half of his vocabulary.

“And I want to watch!” Micky said happily. He disclaimed immediately after, “I don’t know what it’s about, so don’t get mad at me if it’s funny business.”

Peter smiled wanly. “An impartial moderator. Except you haven’t been very impartial lately, Micky.” He turned his back on them for them to follow him inside.

“I’m not here to fight,” Mike told Peter’s back before Micky could answer. They both followed Peter into the room: Micky went straight to one of the beds to flop down on it, apparently not insulted by Peter’s snide comment like Mike would’ve been. Mike stayed standing, making some sort of point through rejecting Peter’s hospitality a little. He didn’t entirely know what that point was, himself, but he was sure that Peter got the half-baked idea he was trying to send across.

Peter sat down at a desk along the far wall. “You never think so.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed. He and Peter stared at each other for a lengthy moment. He decided not to take the bait. “I want to talk about a friend of yours, one you told me about a few months ago.”

“All right.” Peter paused. When Mike didn’t say anything more than that, he prompted, “I have more than one friend, Michael, you need to be more specific.”

“I know that,” Mike said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he thought. “The folksinger in Greenwich.”

The anger slid right out of Peter at that, though Mike hadn’t done this intentionally. Laughing, Peter said, “Greenwich has more folksingers than I have friends, babe.” He had called Mike that recently, but the frequency of it had dropped dramatically since they’d first started the show.

Micky was giving Mike a look. He tried his best to ignore it, because he knew that Micky could tell he was being cagey. He wasn’t known for beating around the bush, but it was something that Micky was far more likely to call him out on than Peter. He and Peter weren’t so close that it would be noticed right off the bat the way that Micky had picked up on it.

Mike ran the words over in his head, looking for options. He didn’t usually try to find the words with the least offense attached to them, which made looking for them now all the more difficult.

“The one who died,” Mike finally settled on.

His eyes shifted to Micky, then back to Peter. Peter and Micky both furrowed their brows.

Peter nodded his head slowly. “All right. Lay it on me.”

Mike saw Micky grin out of the corner of his eye. He knew why; Micky liked how Peter said things like ‘lay it on me’. He didn’t like _that_ he said it. Everybody said it. But he said that Peter had a way of saying slang like a schoolteacher trying to be in with the kids; like Peter’s natural inclination was to use much larger words. Which was probably true. Peter pissed Mike off daily, but not because he was stupid. He’d probably like Peter better if he was.

Mike rubbed his neck. He looked to Micky again, then back to Peter. Peter definitely caught this look if he hadn’t caught the last one, and he, too, looked to Micky.

Micky kept Peter’s gaze for a moment, then turned to Mike, “Do you want me to leave?”

“I said you could stay.”

“You also said I wouldn’t like being here. But I’m lovin’ it, ‘cause you look _so_ cute when you’re flustered!” Micky shot him a nice, exaggerated wink. He probably would have pinched Mike’s cheek if they were standing next to each other. “So maybe I should take off. You can explain it later. It’s okay, Mike, really.”

Micky got up and sent the other two men a smile on his way to the door. Mike grabbed his wrist fast, but moved with him purposefully so that being caught didn’t wrench his shoulder or throw him off-kilter. “Stay,” Mike insisted. He knew that if he’d just yanked Micky back, he wouldn’t have been able to request it. He could push Micky around more than he could Peter or Davy, but that wasn’t limitless. Nor did he expect it to be.

Micky stared at Mike, clearly trying to work out what was going on just by reading his eyes. They could often have sly little conversations with each other with nothing but their eyes. It only occurred to Mike then that he should have expected Micky to catch onto his attraction. He hadn’t thought to try and keep it from his gaze; just his actions. There were a few people who could read him that way—close friends and family—but from the band, it was only Micky.

It was clear Micky couldn’t work out what he wanted.

“All right,” Micky said, sounding wary. He sat down on the edge of the bed this time and said, “Hey, Pete, while I’m here can I get something?”

“Hash or blow?”

“Hash, man, blow makes me think I’m gonna die alone.”

“In the drawer, there.”

“Aw, Pete, you’re the best. I’ll kiss you later.”

“Promises, promises.” Peter sent Micky a smile. Micky started rambling about how he’d like to try peyote once they got to Texas, to connect to the Indians, but that was mostly talking to himself. Peter had turned to Mike by then and said, “Sorry, Michael. What is it you wanted?”

Mike could have cut their banter short if he’d interrupted Micky, but he hadn’t cared to. He actually found himself a little relieved for Micky cutting in, giving him time to strengthen his resolve to the fact he might end the night with both Peter and Micky pissed off at him. Peter would be at least a little pissed regardless, but he hated when Micky was angry in general, and hated it worse when he was mad at him specifically. Their new relationship made the idea of it worse, of course, but really Micky being angry at any of them threw their entire band dynamic out of whack; he’d spend a lot of time smoothing over potential hurt feelings, normally, and it was always obvious when he stopped caring. And he was one of the most annoying people to have mad, anyway, because he’d vary wildly between yelling, having a discussion like an adult, and throwing a fit like a child. Most people were stable in their emotional maturity. Micky was not.

Mike put that aside and decided to act as though he were speaking to Peter alone. “Did you know he was going to kill himself?”

Whatever goodwill Peter had towards him for this conversation shifted to something more calculating, but it didn’t exactly dissipate. “No. I hadn’t been to Greenwich for a while. He spent his last weekend with some friends of ours. I saw them, the last time I went--while you all were in England.” Mike couldn’t remember the date, but he knew that Peter’s friend had been dead by then. Maybe it had been in May. “Maybe they suspected. They told me they didn’t feel it was their place to call the authorities, but they didn’t tell me what he said that authorities would care about.”

From the tone in Peter’s voice, Mike would guess that he wouldn’t have called the police, either, no matter what his friend had said that night. He didn’t doubt Peter would try and talk him out of it, but Mike assumed that after that attempt was made there wouldn’t be any outside calls.

Christian Scientists were often accused of non-involvement for things that required doctors, but that wasn’t the truth. It could be that they chose not to go. But Mike often went to doctors or other persons of authority when he found them more appropriate than the internal solution. But in theory this was one way he and Peter might be the same. Hippies, too, were very anti-involvement. Many didn’t want to force people to do anything or be anywhere they didn’t want, even if that was just ‘alive and on Earth’. This was something Mike would have gone to authorities to try and fix.

He tabled the thought only because Peter hadn’t said so, explicitly, and he didn’t want the conversation to devolve.

Peter continued, “I can’t say I was surprised. He was a manic-depressive, according to his psychologist. Well, according to _him_ according to his psychologist. He was put on lithium and, well-- from my perspective it’s counterintuitive. It blocks you from achieving samadhi; it really puts roadblocks up in your mind and your heart and puts you where you can’t get beyond your bodily pain. Obviously, I’m not against psychotropics,” he added, lifting his blunt. “But I’m against lithium. Especially for creative types, it really brings them down, makes it hard for them to write, or play. Sometimes that’s worse than being a manic-depressive. I was glad he decided not to take it, but that’s a tough spot to be in, when your only form of help is unhelpful.”

That had gone on a tangent like a lot of comments from Peter, but Mike followed most of that reasoning. He didn’t get the Buddhist bullshit take on it at all, but he had a passing sort of knowledge of lithium. He knew it wasn’t something that would get you high, he knew it killed your emotions, and he knew it killed your desire, or maybe ability, for sex. He’d heard jokes about saltpetre being put in coffee when he was in the Air Force, and maybe lithium would’ve been a better bet: It would both keep the armed forces from fucking their comrades _and_ stabilize their moods. Even if ‘stable’ meant cutting out both sadness and happiness in equal measure and leaving you with the nothing. So he figured Peter was mostly right. It was worse than just being a manic-depressive, especially for a folk singer. He could write songs about being sad. He couldn’t write songs about feeling nothing at all.

“Why do you think he did it?”

“I think he was starting to realize he’d never find his audience.”

“Money.”

“I’d rather say recognition. But capitalism is endemic. I don’t think he was greedy. But you get put in this box, when you have no money, that everyone’s talking, talking, saying you don’t deserve _anything_, even basic necessities like—”

“I know, Peter. I’ve been there,” Mike cut him off sharply.

Peter did stop that sentence, but not the idea of what he was saying: “It’s hard to live in a society that finds the comfort of the poor to be an assault on its values. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore’—and I’ll toss them in the streets!”

“Right,” Mike said, forcing restraint, but his fists curled. This was something he _would_ derail the conversation for if pushed. He could fight with Peter about capitalism for years. Not that he thought Peter was wrong about the poor being disregarded. But even Peter contributed to the big machine of capitalism more than he could see. Even going and buying weed contributed to it in some way despite its illegality. Even going to the farmers market to buy his nice, fresh foods untouched by the hands of Big Brother contributed in some way. Capitalism benefitted Peter, while giving him something to be on his high horse about, in Mike’s opinion. The hippie way that Peter shirked the system was idealistic and unsustainable. Simplistic and naïve despite Peter’s great intelligence. He sometimes wanted Peter to well and truly learn the difference between being poor by choice and by force, but the thought was a little too cruel to be more than a passing thing, the way some people said about him, ‘I wish Mike were dead’.

Although he was good enough at pissing people off that one or two might mean it.

Mike looked to Micky. He was sitting watching very quiet and very serious. He'd filled Peter's hash-pipe, but he hadn't lit it, much less taken a hit.

Mike looked away again. He took a few steadying breaths and continued, “He was queer, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Peter said.

He said nothing more for a while. Mike said nothing, either; he could tell Peter knew there was an implicit question. He also knew that Peter was trying to determine his mindset. Whether he cared if people were gay or not. Mike had, to his knowledge, never given the implication he cared about the topic one way or another, but Peter often took him for more conservative than he truly was because of their personal clashing.

“I don’t think that had anything to do with it,” Peter said after a moment. “He never made a secret of it. He didn’t need to. He knew where to socialize to meet like-minded people. You know how Greenwich is.”

Mike did, but only a little. That scene was Peter’s. While it was home to many talented musicians, most had a view of the world that was so different from Mike’s that he stayed sat on the outside of it and appreciated the music from afar.

“So his career goin’ noplace was all there was to it? Not being queer or doing drugs, anything like that?”

“As far as I know.”

Mike nodded. “Well, thanks, good buddy. You have a good night.”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “You, too, Michael.”

+++

None of it had helped. Nor had any of it hurt. Mike had hoped it would have settled his mind, but it hadn’t. Peter’s friend was queer, into the drug scene, and worried about his career just like Micky was. But Peter hadn’t been able to name specifics outside of capitalism and manic-depression. Mike knew Micky to lean into capitalism and be smart with his money. He knew that Micky had gone to a psychiatrist on a couple of occasions, but Mike wasn’t the kind of person to ask after diagnoses of anyone. He wasn't truly concerned about Micky doing what Peter's friend had done, but that didn't make him confident that Micky wasn't doing stupid things that put a band-aid on something that needed stitches.

“Did you get what you wanted out of that?” Micky asked as they walked outside, seeming to read his mind.

They were headed back towards… either one of their rooms, or both. Mike couldn’t tell yet if Micky was angry enough to part ways.

“Not really,” Mike replied.

“Do you want to, maybe, just ask _me_ about what’s bothering you, instead? I’m an open book, you know.”

“Not really,” Mike repeated.

“Well, then, don’t you think you were maybe overreacting just a little?”

“Not—”

Micky stopped him with a laughing kiss against his lips, right in front of his room, right where anyone could see if they decided to step out. “Let’s have a couple of beers and talk about it. Maybe that’ll make it easier.”

What they actually did was order whiskey from room service, because that would get the job done faster. Micky nursed his. Mike drank enough for both of them. He needed to, before he could say, “I don’t like where your head’s at.”

“Because of the drugs? I’m not high now,” Micky replied. He played with his glass a little, swirling his drink.

“Not just that,” Mike said, because he couldn’t just say ‘no’. Micky had done far more drugs this tour than he had the last one. He hadn’t done much of anything at all before he was in _The Monkees_, so maybe it wasn’t so easy to judge. Just about anything would be ‘more’. But it seemed like he couldn’t go a day without a few tabs and some joints. Mike had gotten drunk a little and smoked some weed, but he hadn’t popped tabs of acid and hadn’t gone that way in public. He was pretty sure Micky had been high on stage at least once or twice. “Because of Hyde Park. Because of how you were talking before we left. And maybe because of this.” He waved a hand between them. “I don’t want to get caught up in that.”

That was the part that he didn’t want to admit. It sounded very needy, even if he could turn it into something reasonable.

Micky watched him considerately. “My head’s on straight,” he promised. “I’m not going to kill myself. I’ve wanted to before. I don’t want to, now. Sometimes I want to just go and live in a cave in some faraway place, but I’d be _living_ there. And after a year or two I’d probably at least install a telephone. Or buy postage stamps. I’m not addicted to drugs. I’m not….” He tipped his head. “This isn’t filling some void. I just —like you, Mike.” He laughed a little, but it sounded uncomfortable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

This wasn’t something Mike wanted Micky to see him smile about, so he took another drink.

“Do you want to hear something Peter told me about?” Micky asked.

“I think I’ve heard enough of Peter’s thoughts for one day,” Mike said.

Micky laughed. “It’s about S-E-X,” he said, very dramatically.

“That makes me want to hear it less.”

Micky hummed. He put his drink, undrunk, to the side and slid into one of Mike’s beds. “Well, I’m going to tell you. And I agree with him this time. So, keep that in mind before you start saying he’s a dumbass, motherfucking so-and-so.”

He was laying above the sheets instead of underneath, which made it look like an invitation. Mike tossed his last shot back, stood, and went to join him. “Sure, Mick,” he said. He hooked an arm around Micky’s waist and buried his face into the crook of his neck. “I’ll call you a dumbass, motherfucking so-and-so instead.”

Micky pressed on Mike’s forehead to push him back. “Easy, there. You’ve drunk more than me, tonight. You’re probably only doing this so you don’t jump into a river with lead boots on.”

Ah, there it was. The catty mockery that Mike had expected from the start. He rolled away from Micky to lay on his back.

Mike laughed. “Yeah, I figured you’d be pissed,” he accepted, easily rebuffed.

“Only a little. I’ll probably forgive you tomorrow.”

“I’ll take that.”

“I mean, wouldn’t it have been easier to ask me from the start?” Micky continued. Mike hoped this wouldn’t turn into a proper chewing-out, but it was hard to tell if starting to talk was riling Micky up on it or if he was just asking a legitimate question. It felt like the former, if only because Micky had already asked him the question once.

“No, it wouldn’t’ve.”

“Why? Is it too heavy for you? You _know_ I would have told you if you asked.” He was right. Mike did know that. When he was having a bad day, he’d even tell reporters. He’d just fold his arms on his knees, bury his head and say, ‘Talk to me tomorrow. I’m very sad today.’. Maybe the reporters appreciated that honesty, or maybe that was just the sort of thing that didn’t interest their demographic, because as far as Mike knew they never put that kind of thing in their papers.

“No. I could talk to you just fine, if it was about someone else.” It was a heavy topic, but it wasn’t too heavy. And he wouldn’t have danced around it with non-specifics with Peter if Micky hadn’t been watching.

“Then, what? It scares you?”

“Of course it does, Micky. Jesus Christ.”

Micky looked very surprised at that. That worried Mike, too, but he knew how cyclical the conversation would be if he mentioned it.

Micky’s eyes softened. “I decided to forgive you early,” he said, pulling Mike in and kissing him soundly, parting his lips almost right away.

Mike didn’t even bother rolling them back over. He just laid on his side, making out soft and slow in a way that reminded him of his first kiss.

Micky smiled at him when they parted.

They were both quiet a moment, but then Micky spoke to say, “Peter says that sex can be a way to transfer k…” he paused. His eyes rolled up as he thought about it, actually, visibly, looking for the words. “Kundalini. Kundalini Shakti.”

“I don’t know what the hell that is.”

Mike rested his hand on Micky’s hip, rubbing circles on it.

“It’s everything about you. It’s the deepest part of yourself. The best part of yourself, your heart and soul and…everything. Cosmic power that’s just sitting and waiting for you to wake it up. It stays all curled up, right here,” Micky’s hand reached and touched the base of Mike’s spine. Mike drew in a breath at the touch. “When you wake it up, it feels like you’re on fire. And if you share it, it’s sharing—everything. You feel all their happiness and their sadness, and their beauty. It’s like going to Heaven with them. That’s what you get. You get the parts of them Heaven would get. You know them like God would know them.”

Micky laughed once he’d said it, in a way that told Mike that he took it very seriously but wanted to give Mike a pass to ignore it if he wanted. Micky could mix those things easily, Buddha and God, because he didn’t believe in it traditionally. He believed in nature and souls being ‘God’. He believed in Earth being ‘God’. He was not religious the way Mike knew religion to be, and picked the pieces he liked from several ideologies instead.

Mike slid his hand from Micky’s hip to dip under his shirt and massage the spot at the base of Micky’s spine where Micky said Kundalini stayed hidden. Micky gasped, and though they weren’t laying so close that he could feel Micky grow aroused, Mike knew that he had.

Emboldened by Mike’s encouragement, Micky said, “I think I felt it a little, when I held your hands. When we talked to each other without speaking. I want that. I want to feel that, when we—if we—”

“From ‘fuck me ‘til I can’t sit’ to ‘fuck me ‘til you see me like God does’. That’s a tall order, Mick,” Mike said, a smile in his voice, moving them back over until Micky was gazing up at him.

Micky laughed. “I have faith in you. Anyway, that was just dirty talk, you know?”

“You don’t want it?”

“I want it,” Micky said, “But it was just dirty talk. This is…”

“I know,” Mike assured. He kissed Micky, chastely. He was glad they hadn’t gone through with it before. This was different talk. This was frank honesty that matched the rest of the discussions that night. This talk, too, reminded Mike of firsts. Of the importance that firsts held, before sex became regular and expected. Of setting unattainable standards. This was the first time he’d been with a man, and that realization was the first time it struck him that it might be the first for Micky, too. He decided to attain the unattainable instead of urging Micky to set his sights lower, though he knew it to be wiser. “But not tonight.”

Micky smiled and kissed him. It didn’t seem to be a surprise judgement. “Touch me?”

Mike undid Micky’s pants and took him into his hand. He stroked, watching all the ways Micky’s face changed as he took him further. He took in the things he hadn’t been able to enjoy the first time they were together. The sounds Micky made; the way his cheeks flushed; the way his gaze lost focus.

Micky offered to return the favor once it was over, but Mike shook his head.

He’d found the act more beautiful than arousing.

Eventually Micky fell asleep next to him, but not touching him.

Mike stayed awake a long while, listening to him breathe.


	10. July 10: Florida and North Carolina

Micky woke to a familiar, stabbing pain.

He groaned and opened his eyes. His gaze settled on Mike’s sleeping face and for a moment the warmth that spread from his heart was enough to make him forget the searing ache like the bones in his leg were being filled up with molten lead. He stayed gazing at Mike tenderly for the few seconds his mind let him play make believe before the pain crept back in from the peripheral. It was a strange thing, because the pain wasn’t unfamiliar and it often struck him that he’d had half of his life to get used to it. In many ways he _was_ used to it when he was just walking around in the day-to-day, because you couldn’t be so young and complain about invisible pain to men using walkers or women who’d birthed children. There often wasn’t an audience to tolerate young people hurting, socially or physically, and he always knew how to suck it up to play to an audience. But in the early morning the pain was often a new haircut on a known face; something that took him by surprise despite him knowing it well.

He sighed and got out of bed to walk around until his muscles stretched back out.

He was on his fourth lap around the room when Mike woke up with a stretch.

“What time is it?” Mike asked, half the words in a yawn.

“I dunno, I haven’t looked at a clock.”

“What the hell’re you up for?”’

“Aw, you know me. I’m just all wound up. I could walk outside?”

“Forget it.” Mike fell into one of those silences that had an air to it. A tangible feeling that he was either going back to sleep or waking up fully. Micky made another lap around the room before Mike said, “Go take a shower. And give me your keys; I’ll go get you some clothes.”

“Huh?”

“What ‘huh’?”

“All of it.”

“Neither of us can sleep when you’re walkin’ ‘round like Peg-leg Pete, Mick. Take a shower and I’ll get you some clothes ‘cause I don’t got any more for you to steal.”

That wasn’t true, and if Micky thought about it he would’ve known it was just because there were only so many times he could spend the night with Mike and leave wearing his clothes before someone said something. He didn’t notice, however. He stopped limping around; it had started hurting less, anyway. He picked at his thumbnail for a moment, choosing to look down at his hands instead of Mike. “Sorry.”

“Man.” Mike clucked his tongue. “Don’t do that.”

It was only a few words. A nothing word and a filler phrase often used in their TV show. Just the same, it was clearly scolding him for being embarrassed; there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Mike was even better than his mom when it came to rebuffing him. But then, Mike was making him feel bad _for_ feeling bad, not for something he had no problem with but reasonable heads (like his mother) knew wasn’t acceptable. “Ah—my keys are on the side table,” Micky said. He doubted Mike would need them, as he rarely locked anything for safekeeping, but it was probably easier just to take them, regardless. He rebounded quickly with a smile, “Hey! How ‘bout you get us some breakfast? I’ll pay for it!”

“You want to eat at—” Mike looked at the clock, having to squint in the dark, “Three-thirty in the morning?”

“Yeah! It’ll be like—Like we’re in England again!” Micky had to stop himself from saying ‘a date’. Mike probably wouldn’t know if he was joking, and he knew that whether he _was_ joking or not would depend on Mike’s reaction.

“Sure, Micky. I’ll see if Florida has a ‘Full English’ at three A.M.”

“Three-_thirty_!” Micky declared with one finger pointing up like he was an excited professor.

“Go take your shower,” Mike said.

Micky turned away with a smile, pretending not to notice that Mike had grabbed his wallet the same time he did his keys. He took his time in the shower, standing sideways to get his hip under the hot spray of water. He rested his forehead against the tile wall and closed his eyes, listening to the relaxing whispering beat of thousands of water drops; feeling the blanketing heat. It felt and sounded like the ocean, like he was laying on the beach while waves lapped against him gentle and rhythmic…. He stood back fully upright only when he thought he was going to fall asleep. He yawned, wondering if it would’ve been better to take a bath and drown or risk a narcoleptic concussion like he was.

He stepped out the second time he started nodding off. The brisk air that hit him before he grabbed his towel woke him up fast, but only momentarily. He dried off, then dropped the towel to the floor and got back into bed naked. If early-morning air weren’t so biting, he would have laid on top of the blankets to give Mike a welcome-home sort of surprise. But the nice, toasty blanket was inviting and, well, it would’ve been less impressive if he was cold, anyway.

Micky was nodding off for a third time when Mike came back in. Even the door wouldn’t have gotten him back up, but it was only then that Mike had turned the light on. He sat up straight and blinked hard. He’d only just started to be able to see properly when Mike deposited his clothes onto a chair.

“I got breakfast,” Mike said, holding up a box. It was clear he’d gone to an all-hours diner to grab food because he didn’t have a regular takeout box like McDonald’s or Chicken Delight might. It was a true cardboard box that was likely the box the diner’s napkins had been shipped in.

“My hero!” Micky cooed, clasping his hands next to his cheek and batting his eyes coquettishly.

Mike graced him with a smile for that and slid into bed next to him.

“Did you get the receipt?”

Mike laughed, knowing the reason for the question. “It’s on the bottom,” he said.

Micky took the box to find it, and saw all the more clearly that this wasn’t a place equipped for takeout: There were cookies spread along the box, and the plastic tray, which usually held around a dozen or so cookies, was instead used to hold their eggs, bacon, and pancakes. There were two actual, real metal forks in there, too. Apparently some waitress had taken pity on Mike and decided not to make him eat with his bare hands.

“No coffee?”

“Well, I asked her to pour it in the box, but it was a no-go.”

Micky laughed giddily as he pulled out the breakfast, setting it between them before grabbing the receipt and looking it over.

It was as expected—the cookies, the eggs, the bacon, the pancakes—but at the bottom Mike had written a note for his mother-and-manager:

_Janelle,_

_Taking care of our boy with a midnight snack._

_Love, Mike Nesmith_

Micky smiled so wide that his face hurt. His heart hurt, too, so full of affection that it felt like it might burst. He reluctantly set the receipt aside. His mom cared about receipts quite a bit. Even ones like this she stowed away despite it just two breakfasts and some cookies. She found nickel-and-dime costs snuck up on him in a way that his fancy cars and nice house wouldn’t. But he wanted to keep this one. Frame it, or put it safe and snug in his wallet along with the picture of his family.

He pulled off the lid to their breakfast and passed a fork to Mike.

“Eighteen cookies. She’s gonna think I had the munchies,” he teased. It didn’t matter. His mom knew he smoked. She knew he at least tried the harder stuff, too. Between being close to her, as his mom, and needing to trust her as his manager, he’d never cared to lie about any of it. She cared the way all mothers cared and all managers cared, but said she’d only put an end to it if she felt he wasn’t being safe. He actually believed she _could_ put an end to it, at that. But maybe it was a mutual delusion.

“I’ll tell her you give them out to the peripatetic, marginalized youths you see.”

“Throw them out to the crowd when we play?”

“No one more marginalized than a _Monkees_ fan.”

Micky laughed but only briefly before taking another bite of food. He took care in eating in a way he never did. He was almost grateful that Davy had told him what a slob he was so long ago. It wasn’t anything anyone had called him out for before Davy, and he found he didn’t want to be a slob in front of Mike. Not right then, anyway: In reality he’d probably eaten more with Mike than with the rest of them. Davy refused to eat with him outright, and Peter liked food that was too healthy. Mike was like him; they liked chili, steaks, buttery biscuits, and potatoes all washed down with beer. Peter and Davy both scolded them for not opting for salads, but that wasn’t exactly true. Salads were just a side dish, not a main course.

“Did anyone recognize you?” he asked once he’d swallowed the next bite.

Mike shook his head. “It’s past their curfew.”

Micky huffed a chuckle, though this one was a little more introspective. Sunset Strip was a little too recent for a curfew joke to get a real laugh out of him, despite being states away and knowing Mike was talking more about ten-year-old fans than seventeen-or-eighteen-year-olds.

“I’d recognize you anywhere,” Micky replied. “Even when I’m eighty. But you’ll have to wear the wool hat.”

He knew that needled, and grinned when Mike cussed at him. That hat to Mike was what straightening his hair was to him, or what being told to get on a box to look taller was to Davy, or what being called a dummy was to Peter. It was something deeper than it appeared for all of them—save for Peter, perhaps, since that was an insult on its face rather than an iceberg of a thing with so much more to it.

But this was poking fun at the situation rather than Mike himself, and he knew Mike knew that.

They continued that way, eating and chatting, and once they’d finished Micky set the plastic container aside. “I think you should take your clothes off,” he said.

Mike hummed. “Think we should wait thirty minutes after eating to do that. Might get a cramp.”

Micky leaned in, giving Mike a kiss that was more smile than lips. “Let’s risk it,” he said, and Mike kissed him back soundly.

It didn’t take long before they were both naked, skin-to-skin. Micky almost wanted to make undressing Mike last longer, only because he hadn’t done it before. He’d seen Mike naked before, but only incidentally. When they were in their dressing rooms for the show, or when hotel room doors were left unlocked. And he’d seen the most intimate parts of Mike purposefully very recently, but it was different when it was everything at once. When he could see every hair, every freckle. It was different, feeling Mike hard against him and being able to look anywhere and see Mike’s body bare to him. Being able to grip Mike’s arms and see the white press of his fingertips once his hands slid. Being able to bite and kiss and see the results of ravaging or tenderness, wherever he pleased. He couldn’t wait for it despite knowing this; maybe because he knew this. He couldn’t undress Mike slowly with the reverence it probably deserved because he wasn’t a patient person, but he made sure they didn’t go back beneath the covers despite the chill in the morning air. He made sure they laid on top where they could see all of each other.

They might have had sex then. Probably would have, but Mike didn’t have any K-Y. Micky might’ve pushed for it, anyway, if Mike were closer to his own size—right on the edge between ‘average’ and ‘large’, and definitely would have if he were any smaller. But Mike wasn’t riding any fences that way and Micky was desperate but not quite so desperate to try and talk Mike into going without anything to help.

He settled for two of Mike’s fingers. Even that was rough, unlubricated, but it didn’t hurt. Not really. And this was something Mike was willing to take instruction on. He wasn’t always so agreeable, but when it came to things he’d never done before he almost always deferred to more experience. Mike cared about doing things the right way. So he curled his fingers and moved them with specific instruction, and he most definitely got it right.

Micky knew it was something that was sensitive to most men, for good and for bad, but there was something to it that felt like it was unique to him. Something about the nerves there that made it extra amazing, especially that morning. The pudendal nerve, he thought, but maybe that was wrong. He was more into chemistry than biology. The pleasure spread out to his hip, encompassed his entire pelvis, and he moaned even more unabashedly than if the feeling had gone only to his cock.

He lifted his legs up higher along Mike’s sides and guided Mike’s dick underneath him, between the cleft of his ass and the mattress beneath him.

It took every bit of his active imagination, but when Mike started moving his hips and wrist in tandem, he could almost picture Mike filling him up, stretching him wide. The feeling was so close and yet so far, so good but could be so much better. He practically screamed with pleasure, and was left, chest heaving and arms shaking from the ebbing adrenaline, come hot across his back and stomach, dizzied with the thrill of it, but still wanting _more_.

They showered together afterwards, once they’d spent enough time cuddling. Romantic showers were one of those things that Micky had always built up in his head, but he didn’t engage in often compared to other jointly-naked activities. Time, sleep schedules, laziness, desire, and personalities were all factors into that kind of a thing, and it happened far less often on the road than it did when he was snugly at home.

And maybe this time he realized another reason it didn’t happen that often for him: he turned fast to say something to Mike, his feet went out from under him, Mike’s arms went out to catch him, and they fell like wet, naked dominoes.

Mike cussed over his bruised tailbone, Micky over the elbow he cracked on the edge of the tub, but they both laughed over their wounded pride.

Micky finished turning around and, figuring he deserved it, sucked Mike off instead of trying to talk to him like he’d first intended. He’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say, anyway. Even that wasn’t all that comfortable and he caught his back against the tub’s spout more than once, but it worked out fine on Mike’s end if the way he reacted was any indication. Micky let the evidence of it wash away this time instead of trying to swallow.

“For saving me,” Micky explained afterward, though Mike hadn’t kept him on his feet at all. He’d maybe provided a soft landing.

Mike pushed Micky’s wet hair back out of his face, making Micky’s heart stutter. “You always blow guys who save you?”

“Sure,” Micky said, “That time I got stuck up on Mount Whitney. I thought I was going to be stuck up there all night. I figured they’d send maybe three, four guys up to rescue me. I was kinda looking forward to it…”

“To guys runnin’ a train on you?”

“Well, under the circumstances… I’d think of it more as a ski run…” Micky mused thoughtfully. He kissed Mike, then carefully stood and got out of the tub. Mike followed suit. “Anyway, I was thinkin’ about it. But then the snow let up enough for me to start climbing again. So I got myself off—and then I got myself off.”

He gave a nice, exaggerated wink at the punchline, which was the entire point of it all; he’d told Mike the story before. The true story, without the made-up sex parts, so it wasn’t made for Mike to learn anything new about him.

Mike rolled his eyes, but looked a little amused.

“But you know,” Micky said, grabbing a towel to dry his hair. “Maybe a train wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

“No.”

“Hear me out—”

“No.”

“—we could go by size. Davy, Peter, and by the time we got to you, I probably wouldn’t even need K-Y anymore.” Micky turned, spreading his arms out and lifting his eyebrows up high on his forehead. His entire body read _good idea, right?_

Mike grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to the side. Micky yelped dutifully, but it was a put-on. The act seemed partially out of real annoyance and partially just so Mike could take Micky’s place in front of the mirror. The one thing it _wasn’t_ was meant to hurt. Micky didn’t have hair as long as most women, but it was long enough to pull painfully; Mike had grabbed close to the scalp, firm but not painful, and Micky was struck with the exciting knowledge that Mike had definitely done that sort of thing before.

He knew how to be rough properly, leaving dull aches but nothing lasting.

So Micky carried on, singing happily and not for the first time, “_That’s the sound of the men, working on the gang ba-a-ang.”_

Mike stopped, picked up one of the deposited towels, and whipped him in the ass with it.

+++

Mike turned him down when Micky asked him to come sailing along the coast. “It’ll be me, Peter, Jimi, and a couple’a the guys from _The Sundowners_.” He’d explained. He didn’t know which ones. They were all good guys, but he wasn’t especially close to them. Mostly he was just glad that they were decent enough not to be mad that he’d lobbied to get Jimi the opening act that they would’ve likely had otherwise. Maybe that was just because they were getting plenty of attention just by opening now and again and being the backing band.

Mike waved him off saying that he was tired. It had as least as much chance of being true as it being a lie to cover still having enough of Peter for the week, so Micky didn’t push it.

He took off by himself. He took a lot of pictures on the boat, making sure to add, “Smile for Mike!” or “Say ‘cheese’ for Davy!” since they weren’t there for it. He on occasion got very solemn and dramatic, and at one point had all of them gather around the edge of the boat and pour out a shot of liquor for their friends who couldn’t be with them on that day.

They talked about dreams for the future.

Jimi’s was, “To have my own house.”

Micky laughed at that, and he was quick to explain just in case Jimi got offended, “That makes me think of what Mike said, when we first started the show. That’s where you’re at now, man, nowhere to go but up! You’ll have it, no time.”

“Where’re you staying now?” Peter asked.

“Anyplace that will have me. I make sure to leave before I outstay my welcome.” Jimi smiled at that, but there seemed a kernel there that he at least thought was the truth. Whether that was his own belief or the objective reality was hard to say.

“Aw, shit!” Micky said, “Teach me to play guitar with my teeth and I’ll give you my house!”

His mom would hate that bargain, but he maybe-definitely meant it. It would be worth every cent.

Jimi laughed, nice and soft. He reached out and grabbed Micky’s chin and Micky, expectant, opened wide like he would at the dentist. “Your teeth are too sharp, you’ll snap the strings,” he decided after his inspection.

Micky frowned, pouting. “For real?”

If it were someone meaner than Jimi, the gag would have at least stretched out a little. But Jimi just shook his head and said, “Naw, I’m just no good at teaching.”

Micky shrugged and smiled. “Just as well. I’m no good at learning.” That was at least partially true when it came to music, anyway. He could learn things on a technical level. He was always good at learning academically. But art was a different thing entirely, which meant music was a different thing entirely. There was a difference there, between being _technically_ able and being artistically able. Mike had been right in saying that Peter would be better at the drums than he was, were Peter so inclined to learn, because Peter had that kind of artistic talent. If Peter wanted to, he probably could learn to play guitar with his teeth. Peter just wasn’t that sort of musician.

It went that way for a while, just talking, swimming, laughing. Jimi told them that there was a nice hotel in New York that he often stayed at, but might not be up to their standards.

That was something Peter really latched onto, both to assure Jimi that they wouldn’t mind at all, and to start in about how he wanted to try and lessen his economic footprint. Micky quite liked the expensive foods and whiskeys he could get from high-end room service, so he jumped over the side of the boat to swim away from the conversation.

+++

They got to North Carolina in the middle of the day. There wasn’t too much to do that afternoon, with most of the press-talking, baby-kissing things scheduled for the next day right before their show. The flight had been short enough that even Micky, who always found himself jetlegged and logey, felt bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Two hours was a damn sight shorter than the flights to England and back again had been.

The Red Carpet Inn wasn’t large, but it didn’t need to be; they had an entire floor to themselves, and that was more than enough. And having the top floor meant they had the entire roof to themselves, too: There was a pool up there, which was a nice feature that a lot of hotels lacked, and Jimi and his band were very excited for it. Micky passed it up for the time being, though he made a mental note to go up there to take pictures, too.

What he decided he wanted to do was explore the town. He gave it a few hours, just in case that would help everything die down, then he gathered the guys around him.

“I wanna go shopping,” he insisted.

“Make security buy it for you,” Davy said. His tone was dismissive, but Micky knew he was up for it. He’d pushed Micky to go outside with him and fight the crowds before, so it was fair play.

“C’mon, guys, it’ll be fun!”

Davy sighed and offered Mike, “Let’s step out and have a cigarette. We’ll let ‘im go first and have a laugh if he gets mugged.”

Mike rolled his eyes and informed Micky, “For the record, you’re a God damn idiot,” but went to put his jacket on. That, in turn, got Peter willing. Maybe to compete with Mike, but maybe just because he was tired of feeling like the odd man out.

Micky beamed and led them outside. He puffed up his chest, stuck out a pointing finger, and took on a leader’s voice— “Onward, my brave men!” It was the sort of voice that both sounded like a man who used a bugle, and sounded a bit like a bugle in and of itself. A Dudley Do Right kind of a thing.

They went out the back and braced themselves.

Nothing came.

Their heads swiveled, looking at each other in confusion. Sometimes it was possible to sneak into town. That mostly depended on when they were talking to the press and what kind of gossip mill the city ran on. But they had never, ever, gotten settled and not had the place immediately overrun.

They didn’t risk going down the street right away, instead hanging close to the hotel.

“You guys _The Monkees?_” came a deep voice. A man’s voice, too old for their audience.

They all turned in unison. It felt deeply, surreally like a bit on their show. They all set eyes on the man, mid-forties, unloading boxes onto a freight elevator.

“That’s right,” Mike said.

“Looking for your fans?”

“More like wondering why they aren’t looking for us,” Davy said, frowning.

Micky could tell he was relieved, because they’d had girls practically getting run over by their car to get a look at them, which went far beyond the regular lookee-loos to something genuinely terrifying. But Davy did like an audience and was scared of losing it, and what he actually sounded was peeved.

“Some kid started a rumor a couple weeks ago that you guys were already here. Had a real racket going. He’d stand by this elevator and charge kids a nickel to ride up to see if they could see you. You can do that a little while, but pretty soon--Boy who cried wolf, you know?”

They looked at each other again.

“Huh,” said Peter, thoughtfully. “I’d kind of forgotten what it was like to stand on a street without getting accosted.”

They weren’t really on the street, tucked where they were, but the point stood. Mike had been able to step out at three-thirty in the morning with no crowd. Micky had been able to go out and gather a large impromptu crowd in the early-morning hours with quite possibly only one reporter and remarkably few pictures taken. But in both cases that was the element of surprise; fans would have expected Mike at three-thirty _P.M._ and reporters would have expected to have been called, or at the least for any impromptu shows to have gone on at a reasonable hour.

There was no element of surprise in this case. They were supposed to be there on that date, at that hotel. It wasn’t early morning when children weren’t allowed to walk around and were instead tucked safely in their beds. Nor was it late into the night when maybe, maybe if they were especially clever, they could hide their faces in the darkness. But there were usually too many streetlights for even that to work.

In the middle of the day like normal people, and standing exactly where they were supposed to be instead of sneaking off to some unknown place, there was no reason for a crowd not to be there.

Ironically it made them not want to try walking out anywhere further, like the wrong step might break the illusion. 

Mike, Davy, and Peter all lit up cigarettes.

Micky was almost tempted to take up smoking just so he could get the most of being outside.

Instead he brightened up, almost visibly glowing. “Hey, mister!” he called, too loud for someone trying to be secretive, “Once you’re done takin’ stuff up, do you think we could ride a couple’a places in the back of your truck? We’re real good tippers! We’ll give you way more than a nickel.”

The man laughed. “You got it, kid,” he agreed, before punching the button to take the elevator up. He waved at them through the gated door.

Micky grinned wide and walked back a little closer to the guys.

“How the hell will we know where we’re going?” Mike asked him. He was smiling a little. Very little, just a quirk of his lips. “It ain’t like the back of that truck’s got windows.”

“Aw, shoot, Mr. Elevator will help us figure it out,” Micky dismissed, waving a hand. “We just gotta figure out the things we want and he’ll take us to the places that’s got ‘em.” He considered. “Unless you think he’s going to kidnap us.”

“Please,” said Davy, “We only put up with you because we get paid. No one is going to take you willingly.”

“No, no,” Micky agreed, “But everyone knows me and my shadow, David Jones, are a match set. And no one can get enough of your cute, baby face! He looks like a fatherly type, maybe he’s looking to adopt!”

“I’ve too many bad habits,” Davy said, waving his cigarette, and Micky laughed.

The conversation shifted. Devolved. Evolved, as they waited for everything to get unloaded and signed in.

Peter read a nearby billboard, “Beautify America! Get a haircut!”

Micky laughed as he sat down on the pavement. “That’s funny. The first thing I’d do to beautify America is get rid of all the billboards.”

“Right on,” Peter agreed. “That’s very insidious. So often you don’t even think when you see billboards, when you’re driving by. It gets in your subconscious. That’s what corporate America wants; to get at you unawares.”

“Yeah, man.” Micky nodded his head. He leaned up against Peter’s leg a bit, since Peter was the one closest to him.

“Man, no one’s brainwashing anyone,” Mike snapped.

“If you were brainwashed, how would you know?” Peter countered.

“They’re assholes, but everyone knows it,” Mike returned. “It’s not a secret.”

Micky quite liked the ideas of corporations brainwashing through advertising, in a _Twilight Zone_ sort of a way. He wasn’t sure where Mike stood on it. It was probably exactly what he was saying, but sometimes he felt a little closer to Peter’s opinion on things and just took his own ideas to an extreme to try and get Peter to let up some ground on his natural, legitimately extreme views. It was a strangely combative way of trying to get Peter to meet him in the middle. Micky could see that, but Peter couldn’t.

They argued a while longer, but let up once the man came back down on the elevator.

They talked to him a bit, and he told them all of the best places in town, and together they made lists of the things they wanted. Quite a lot of it was food. They could always order in or get security to grab something, but locals were the ones who knew the best, most secret places. Now and then one of them popped in—usually Peter or Mike—they weren’t played as being the face of the band quite the way Micky and Davy were, and could get maybe a little further without recognition. Even if they only had an inch of an advantage rather than a mile, it was something. Most of the time it was their driver, Carl, who dipped inside and got whatever he found suitable.

Micky dipped in only once, and that was to the pharmacy.

Davy teased him with, “Oh, refilling a prescription, are you?”

“I haven’t had the clap in _months_,” Micky shot back, joking, but it wasn’t a lie or a secret.

Davy laughed. He tried getting a peek in the bag Micky brought out afterwards, but Micky held it close to his chest.

Holding a conversation with their driver had been hard. There were only snippets here and there when he opened up the back after delivering their goods from the last stop. They learned bits and pieces through hurried questions wrapped around where they wanted to go next. They learned how many kids he had, what pets he had, generic things that were niceties but mattered at least a little.

When they got back to the hotel, they talked just a little more. They paid him well and signed autographs for his children, and even got an address to write a thank you note to.

They went back to their rooms with smiles on their faces, greeting their security whose expressions were not nearly so bright.


	11. July 10-11: North Carolina

Micky waited an hour before slipping from his room and into Mike’s, one shopping bag clutched in his hands.

“Housekeeping!” he called out as he shut the door behind him.

“I know how you clean. You wanna do my room, you gotta pay _me_,” Mike said, though that was just riffing. Micky was a clean person; it was just that he often had projects and experiments going on that cluttered his house. Mike wasn’t really interested either way: he was reading a book on his bed and didn’t immediately look up from it.

“I’ve been working on my hospital corners,” Micky promised, crawling into bed next to Mike. Rather than sit down, he was kneeling, like an expectant child that was going to bounce up at any moment.

Mike didn’t answer that time. He didn’t immediately look at Micky, either, though he set his book down and turned his focus once he got to the end of the page he was on.

“I got you a present!” Micky said once Mike was paying him attention. He reached into his bag, grabbed the tube of K-Y he’d bought at the pharmacy, and slapped it into Mike’s palm.

It was so surreal that Mike burst into laughter. “Here I was, expecting flowers,” he said dryly.

“I’ll give you _my_ flower,” Micky countered with waggling eyebrows. He slid his arms over Mike’s shoulders, holding his hands behind Mike’s head and pulling him in for a kiss. It was almost a strange way to go about it; most of the time Mike was pulled in this way it was to make up some sort of height difference. A girl standing on tip-toe pulling him down. Kneeling instead of sitting like he was made Micky taller than him, and for the first time since they’d started this tryst, Mike was struck with an emotional difference to how it felt to be with a woman. The physicality was obvious. But even with the talk of deflowering, something about the dynamic Micky put out then had an air to it that Mike was suddenly and starkly aware of.

Mike let the hand that had nothing in it rest on Micky’s hip. He didn’t mind the sudden, curious feeling that had come over him and did nothing to try and end the kiss. Micky was a good kisser if only because of how enthusiastic he was, and it felt a shame to cut it short.

He did, however, end it when Micky’s hands slid lower. Just the time that Micky had gotten his belt slipped loose, he said, “Not now, Mick.”

“Aw, c’mon… Is it ‘cause of security? I know they’re mad, but… We can lock the door, they won’t check on us again.” Micky’s hand stayed busy, dipping into Mike’s underwear to start stroking him. “We could even go in the bathroom, double-lock it?”

Mike rocked into Micky’s hand despite himself but said firmly, “No.” He grabbed Micky’s wrist to stop him that time, and Micky dutifully let him go.

And once Mike released his wrist, he pulled away entirely. He settled into a proper sitting position and looked at his hands. “Sorry,” he said. He wasn’t always the most gentlemanly around, but if there was one way he was better than a lot of musicians, it was that he respected boundaries. That had nothing to do with the fact that Mike could knock his lights out if he wanted to, though they both knew that to be true. Mike would almost think it had to do with Micky having so many sisters, but there were other musicians with sisters who would fuck too-young girls or even carry around chloroform to have their way. So Mike knew it didn’t have much to do with sisters, either. Micky was decent. Maybe he wasn’t always respectable, but that was different than decency, and the thought made Mike smile a little.

“S’all right,” Mike assured, reaching out and pulling Micky back in. “But we’re not doin’ that now.”

Micky pressed his face into Mike’s neck and kissed him there, but slower now. Ginger and careful, looking for any stop signs. He kept his hands up, touching Mike’s upper back and his shoulders, the way Mike had been told to at the few school dances he’d gone to. Although Micky’s mouth on his neck was definitely not giving space for Jesus to stand between them, the hands were doing their part.

“How come?” Micky asked, words tickling Mike’s skin.

“You’re gonna be loud. We don’t got the space we did in Florida.” They had, almost, small apartments there. North Carolina was a proper hotel with thin walls and all of the rooms side-by-side.

Micky scoffed. “Boy, you’re cocky,” he said into Mike’s neck. “You think you’re that good?”

“I know it,” Mike said. It wasn’t even cockiness. Even just using his fingers on Micky he’d gotten more noise than he thought he had from any woman by fucking her. And the kicker of it was that even those who had given him less had sometimes been faking. He knew that every whimpering noise, every shout, every beg Micky had given him had been honest. All that noise had been drawn out with Mike’s own fingers.

“So gag me,” Micky said.

Mike sighed. This was the noise he couldn’t work out the honesty of. Or maybe ‘honesty’ wasn’t the right word. Micky was leaning equally into the ideas of lovemaking and something dirtier, which left Mike going with his gut that the proper way to do things was on the gentler side. He didn’t really think Micky would hold a grudge either way it happened, but there’d been a certain rawness to Micky sharing the idea of Kundalini that hadn’t been there when he leaned more towards getting fucked hard and treated more like something disposable.

“I don’t wanna gag you,” Mike said, rubbing Micky’s back. He had more reasons for that decision than just giving Micky what he wanted. Micky had some noises that went through Mike like touching a live wire, and he wasn’t going to miss out on them if he could help it. Finally, and even more importantly than either of their individual desires, he knew better than to take anyone’s virginity while leaving them unable to say word one. Maybe Micky didn’t fully see it as virginity with all the consequences it carried, seeing as he’d long since lost that in the traditional way, but that was what it was.

“Wow! Everyone else does!” Micky said, chipperly, drawing back and giving Mike a bright smile. But it wavered a little and he asked, slow, reluctant, almost like the words were being dragged out forcibly, “Are you having second thoughts?”

“’Bout gagging you? I didn’t even have first thoughts about it.”

“Aw, you know what I mean,” Micky said, frowning.

Mike did.

“No, I ain’t.”

“So we just gotta find someplace more private?” Micky asked, “That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all.”

Micky nodded his head. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. It always made them a little chapped, the same way his habit of biting his fingernails made the tips rough and a little raggedy. Mike found he liked Micky’s mouth and his fingers just fine despite all of this. He maybe even liked them better for it, and he put his hand on Micky’s cheek, turning Micky to face him again and kissing him deeply. Mike liked things with personality better than pretty-perfect things. Micky was pretty but not perfect. He was filled with personality.

Micky let out a soft breath when they parted, and he smiled. “Let’s go to the roof. After the show tomorrow.”

“The roof?” Mike repeated. He was looking over Micky’s face, touching it tenderly.

“If we go at the right time, nobody’ll be up there but us.” It wasn’t even that hard to coordinate, since they only had to work it out amongst their own people, The Monkees and the supporting bands and crew. It wasn’t as hard as organizing around a bunch of strangers. “Maybe real early in the morning. We can see the stars.”

Mike considered this. “It’s a date,” he agreed.

Micky gave him a look that was very, very strange. A toothy smile and eyes that looked a little heartbroken. Mike was tired of these expressions that confused him, when he could usually read Micky so easily. He was more tired of them because he knew he’d been the cause of all of them, somehow. It made Mike want to give him something, but this wasn’t the kind of relationship where he was supposed to write some song or make a grand gesture.

“Lay back and close your eyes,” Mike said.

“Do I got to?” Micky asked, after he already had. “I like knowing, you know? I don’t like surprises that much.”

“You don’t?” Mike asked as he went to undo Micky’s jeans. Micky obligingly lifted his hips for him to pull the pants and underwear down.

Micky was the sort to always give and get surprises in equal measure. He often ended up getting surprises for _himself_ through being scatterbrained. He’d order some big thing from England or Germany and by the time it was shipped to America he would be delighted, ‘I forgot all about that!’ and act like it was a birthday gift come late.

“Well. No, I like surprises. I just like bein’ able to see them,” Micky corrected, laughing a little, but it sounded uncomfortable. “It’s like—I like talking in person instead’a on the phone. You don’t get the whole picture. Sometimes--”

“Mm?” Mike encouraged, when Micky stayed silent.

“Sometimes it feels like they’re laughing at you, when you can’t see they aren’t. You dig?”

“No laughing, here,” Mike promised. But he knew the feeling, as he was in a very similar spot. The other side of the same coin, perhaps. He was doing something he’d never done before and didn’t know if he could handle Micky’s eyes being on him for fear of rejection. He could err towards the overconfident, but he tended to do that when he had some kind of ability to fall back on. He knew he didn’t have the ability, here. But he also knew he had more confidence to shift around and pretend with than Micky did. So he said as honestly as he could without seeming shy or meek somehow, “I’d rather you weren’t lookin’. But that’s all right. I’ll close my eyes instead and just pretend you’ve got yours closed, too. Look at me whenever you need to, Mick.” A beat and he added, “Just be quiet.”

He slid down, settling between Micky’s legs. He was just about to take Micky’s cock into his mouth when Micky must have opened his eyes, because—

“Oh! Mike, you don’t gotta. I didn’t expect—it’s okay, if you don’t want to—”

That definitely spoiled the illusion that Mike was trying to work up in his head that he was doing this unattached, somehow. Sucking Micky off without Micky actually being around and part of it. Boxing it up to a space of no consequences. He drew up every ounce of bluster he had and looked up to meet Micky’s gaze.

“You know I never do a damn thing I don’t want to do,” he said, and took Micky’s cock—soft, small, unimposing-- into his mouth. If Mike had to guess, it was his words rather than the heat or the wetness that made Micky groan. Words that made soft, small, unimposing, turn to hard, large, impressive within seconds.

He found he all at once wasn’t so worried about how well he sucked dick. Oh, he hated failing at anything, so to that end he was worried, but once he started Micky wasn’t shy at all about guiding Mike towards what he preferred, or letting out a moan muffled by bitten lips or covered with his palm when Mike hit the mark. But Mike was understanding in bits and pieces just where the attraction was coming from. Like a puzzle coming together, he was understanding that it wasn’t just his mouth that was getting Micky off.

+++

Micky hadn’t prattled on about it like Mike had thought he might. He did, however, keep sneaking Mike these little glances. Even the next day as they got ready for the show, Micky was giving him these brand new looks.

“You’d think you’d never got head before,” Mike said, low under his breath as he adjusted his guitar.

“Sure I’ve had it before,” Micky said, just as soft, “But used to be it wasn’t with Mike Nesmith.”

“Mm, used to be.”

“Bet it’s gonna be pretty common now, though,” Micky said, giving him a sly sort of expression, head tipped down, eyebrows lifted, grinning wide.

“You’re no good with bets,” Mike warned, “It’s why your mom won’t let you take your money to the tracks.”

Micky laughed and Mike knew why. Having a mother who managed and a manager who mothered made statements like that sound like they were still in high school.

“My mom doesn’t like me drinking beer, either,” Micky returned, the _but I do_ unspoken at the end of it. And just like the _but I do_, the double entendre was silent, too, but Mike heard it loud and clear.

They didn’t keep up the conversation. They couldn’t, not with so many people around. Maybe no one would hear; it seemed likely, actually, that no one would. People that were around before a set were always milling, doing, acting, and didn’t care much about other people’s conversations. Hiding in plain sight was a cliché for a reason, but neither of them were the sort to lean into this cliché. They either kept things private or they didn’t. Sand could only be managed if kept in a jar. Loose on the beach it got in the clothes of every passersby, the grains of which would be shaken off to be lost with every step they took. Privacy was contained the same way, and secrets were only yours so long as you made the effort to keep them that way.

They watched Jimi as he prepared, instead. They listened to what he said to his band. They watched as Jimi popped a tab of acid onto the tip of his tongue. Micky’s eyes got very big and very bright at that, and if Mike had noticed he would have been able to read _stay tuned for Micky’s bright idea!_ As clearly as if it had been an episode of their show. His eyes were on Jimi, however, not on Micky’s big, bright eyes.

Jimi went on stage and played to a crowd that had been lining up since three A.M. and had no room in their hearts for what he had to offer them. Once more the boos rolled like thunder and covered up his voice. Jimi played until he couldn’t stomach it, and walked off stage.

Once again they offered their quick apologies. This time instead of sitting and talking with them a moment, Jimi said a cursory, “It’s all right,” and kept right on walking.

+++

After the show Micky followed Mike back to his room like a puppy. They kissed and touched all around the room in a lazy-day kind of a way. They started on the bed, but they parted as they each got up to change into something suitable for swimming—it did sound nice, to swim around the rooftop, even if swimming seemed less interesting than sex. They kissed and touched and talked and undressed and re-dressed all in bits and pieces.

Mike shot him a funny, dark kind of look once he rolled and lit a blunt. “Relax, I’m not gonna be impaired,” Micky tutted. At least he figured he wouldn’t be, not by the time they actually got around to doing anything worthwhile. Not if they were actually going to swim at all. He took a hit and held it, then went to Mike and kissed him. He let the smoke go from his lungs to Mike’s; Mike accepted the kiss and the high, so he couldn’t have been all that upset. “It’s my stuff, not Peter’s. It won’t get me too funny.”

He was sensitive to the regular sort of weed, but Peter got hashish. The strong stuff that knocked him on his back, or his face. He’d even almost admit to Mike having a legitimate concern, then; if he’d taken some of the hard stuff he thought he’d be able to fall asleep while Mike fucked him. Which didn’t sound altogether bad on his side, but he’d fucked plenty of girls and he didn’t want any to be conked out, during, either.

He kept smoking as they headed to the elevator. They had to pass cops to get there, but they were their cops this go around, just hanging around to keep the ruckus down in the hours before and after the concert. Guard dog cops. Practically on the band’s payroll for the next two days. They didn’t make any move to try and arrest him over it. Even on the street they might not; he’d gotten caught with it on him once when he was driving too fast and had only gotten a hefty fine, but that had been in California rather than North Carolina. Maybe that was the benefit of fame or maybe it was some other sorts of insulation; he was also just a better smooth talker than some—Peter, for instance, couldn’t talk himself out of trouble because he was so stuck on being right that consequences just affirmed his moral stance. Mike, for instance, couldn’t talk himself out of trouble because he was so stuck on being a smartass. Micky was rarely fixed on being right, and was mostly only a smartass with people on his own level—he didn’t punch up or down, just sideways. That in itself often cost him with friends who accused him of flakiness or even with work as with _The One-Nighters_ who found him redundant to the band even on the points of personality. But it had rarely ever cost him with authority.

They got to the roof but found it occupied. They waved to _The Sundowners_ and headed on back down.

“Let’s go see Peter,” Micky suggested.

Mike rolled his eyes at the suggestion, but he knew it wasn’t just Peter. He’d been talking about having Jimi over to his room to play some, and probably some other guys, too. Mike at least liked the music well enough to listen to them a bit.

Micky led Mike back out and through the hallway and straight to Peter’s room. There were cops standing in front of Peter’s door, too, but he and Mike slipped in easy. They reminded Micky of the guards in front of Buckingham Palace when they were like this instead of on the street. He never much felt compelled to try and talk to them, but right then he thought they might just ignore him no matter what he did.

It wasn’t just Peter and Jimi: Vince Martin and Stephen Stills were there. God it was hard, keeping up who was with them. There were so many people. Roadies and managers and backing bands and friends drawn in from everywhere and-- They were all playing their guitars as they sat on the bed, and they were all naked as the day they were born. It wasn’t often he could feel he and Mike were overdressed in just their swim trunks.

Mike muttered something. He was far less of a nudist than Peter was, and would probably much rather be hanging around in jeans and a shirt than naked on a bed.

Nonetheless they all greeted each other happily enough.

“Were you smoking that in the hallway, with the police?” Peter asked curiously.

“Man, you’re one to talk,” Micky said, waving a hand as though to clear the air.

“We were half-expecting to get a talking to,” Stephen agreed, “Figured they didn’t do anything since it wasn’t in front of them.”

“Aw, they don’t give a shit,” Micky dismissed.

“They give a shit,” Mike disagreed as he went to sit in the only chair of the room, “Just give bigger shits about couple tens of thousands of dollars of revenue for the city.”

“Feh,” Micky said, this meaning nothing to him. Mike had a brain for business. Micky outsourced his money for a reason. Then he said, “Man! All the good seats are taken. I’m gonna have to sit in someone’s lap.” He looked around everyone dramatically, then decided to plop down on Mike. “Don’t want to get in the way of anyone’s_… instrument_,” he said with a smile, looking over all the other, much less clothed, musicians. But he gave Mike a more sincere smile and said, “Best seat in the house!”

“You know Mike’s probably right,” Peter said, after a soft chuckle over Micky’s antics. “They'd nail you if they could. They'd arrest you for anything, if they could, without the backlash. They’ve been arresting people for vagrancy here, even when they’re standing in their own houses. How can you be a vagrant in a private residence? Do you carry money in your pockets in your own home? I don’t.”

“You haven’t even got the pockets,” Mike agreed, tone baiting.

That soured Peter a bit, given he’d gone out of his way to agree with Mike, but he continued. “There’s a case right here in Charlotte, Vice came in in the middle of the night and threatened to arrest a couple on cohabitation.”

“Boy, if they arrested me and the chicks I’ve been with for cohabiting…” Micky mused. “The Institution for Women would fill their beds tonight.”

“Well they knew it’s a hard charge to get anywhere with,” Peter continued. He didn’t find this comment funny, as he was a little too stuck up on his lesson, “So they came back and busted the door down to look for drugs.”

“Thank God for the ACLU,” said Stephen. “Vice hasn’t even been able to come up with _fake_ warrants.”

Micky knew deep down that this wasn’t the kind of conversation Mike wanted to be a part of. Not that he disagreed on the cop part. They all agreed insofar as police brutalities and injustices went. But it was very much tied in things that Mike did have some value towards. Money, religion, which were things derided by Peter, and which would overshadow any of the points they got on about.

So he rolled his hips to give a friendlier kind of distraction. He took a hit and passed his blunt back to Mike, who was far more accepting of it now.

“The young must ‘strive and succeed’ in the way Horatio Alger sees fit, only a hundred years out of date,” Peter scoffed.

“Maybe you oughta play some more,” Micky suggested. “Or jack off.”

The majority was against him on that one, even though he hadn’t been especially serious. Mike and Jimi didn’t seem bothered, but the rest did.

“Nudity isn’t always sexual,” Vince said.

“I know,” Micky said, “But it’s more fun when it is.”

“You don’t even like orgies, Micky,” Peter said, turning more tolerant, almost amused.

“Well I don’t usually got to pick between orgies and politics,” Micky countered. “But there’s five of you here and I only got two hands and two holes. So maybe just play something before I gotta figure out how to put _everyone_ in a better mood.”

Despite the initial stony reception, that one got even the naysayers. All the guys laughed and readjusted their guitars to play. Since neither Micky nor Mike had instruments, they instead sang along to the songs and eventually became the sole voices for them. Peter might have been offended when it came to not getting any songs thrown his way when they were recording, but he wasn’t upset at either of them for getting songs he thought should have gone his way instead. Peter rallied for them to sing together more than anyone else; he said their harmonization sounded like magic. Micky tended to agree with that assessment.

He often bounced and rocked when he was sitting and singing, especially when he got into it, and this time he was glad for the excuse. He suddenly understood the thrill, when Davy would sit in his lap just to get him hard. Mike growing stiff against his ass made his heart thump fast, and while he didn’t find it funny he at least got the joke.

Each song they sang he could hear Mike’s voice hitch just a little more, grow just a little tighter, and then there’d be a reprieve of nothing but talk. His motions would ebb, but he was still too heavy, too warm and present, for Mike to go soft. It was ebb and flow, getting Mike to the edge and back again.

It took six songs. The better part of an hour, accounting for solos and in-between bullshitting. Six songs and Mike shoved him up and said, “Me and Mick are goin’.” He didn’t say _to the pool_, presumably because that would make it an invitation. But under his breath as he followed Micky out the door, he muttered, “If those guys’re still up there I’m gonna drown them.”

They went down the hallway past the cops one more time, a little high and a lot aroused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'double entendre' of Micky's joke about drinking beer: the comment is in reference to giving blowjobs; 'beer' becoming slang for semen around 1961. Figured I'd put that one here since it's the only reference that might be confusing. Other notes for this chapter have been added to the 'Historical References' at the end.


	12. Chapter 12

This time when they got to the roof, there was no one else there. Mike grabbed a folding chair and shoved it up under the doorknob to block it.

“Fire hazard,” Micky scolded with a smile, “I’m telling the marshal.”

Mike turned to look at him. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promised.

Before Micky could be too heartened at that sentiment, Mike shoved him backwards and he fell into the pool with a splash.

“Feel better?” Mike asked as he got into the water himself, considerably more deliberately.

“Just peachy,” Micky groused, spitting water and pushing the wet hair out of his face. But then Mike was kissing him and all at once it was much harder to be angry. “You’ve got a thing for drowned rats, huh?” he asked, mouth meeting Mike’s again and again, letting himself be backed against the nearest wall.

“Nah. It’s your chicken legs that get me.”

Micky huffed a laugh even without the kiss that Mike pressed against his jaw, but he knew that it was meant as a disclaimer. _A just kidding, don’t be mad_. Because it was an actual sensitivity of his, in part, but also because Mike’s voice often had a way about it. It wasn’t always so easy to tell how serious he was, and more people assumed serious than not. Micky often assumed the opposite, but he was the exception.

He shut his eyes as Mike’s hand went down his swim trunks and tightened around his cock. It felt so much different beneath the water than it did on land. Everything was loose and easy. He hummed as his mind wandered. “How long can you hold your breath?”

“I’m not fucking you underwater,” came Mike’s reply, right up against his collarbone. There was a laugh hidden in Mike’s voice. Micky laughed, too, in no way hidden, and his eyes opened.

“I didn’t mean that!” he objected. Though he had, a little, only hypothetically, and flushed at the fact Mike had caught onto his thoughts so fast. “I think it’d be like fucking in space. No gravity. You think?”

“When we get to Texas, we’ll go to the Space Center and ask.” Mike’s sarcastic mouth caught his again then, maybe just to shut him up.

Kisses didn’t often taste like much in Micky’s mind. Sometimes if he went with a girl who smoked, pot or the regular stuff, he could pick up on it. Or in the morning after the fact, before they’d brushed their teeth and he would’ve been put off kissing altogether if there weren’t something so charming in the mornings. Right then there was the taste of chlorine from having taken in a gasping swallow of pool water moments before. He felt clean and alive and exhilarated.

He reached to stroke Mike a bit, too, but Mike’s free hand stopped him before he could get past the shorts. “You got me too worked up for that,” Mike warned. Micky withdrew, knowing that Mike meant at that moment a handjob wouldn’t just be foreplay, and also knowing he wouldn’t be able to stand it if Mike came anywhere but inside him.

Micky smiled a little. “Sorry,” he said, slipping his thumbs into his waistband and guiding his shorts down. The water took them easily, and he didn’t have to work at all to get them down his legs. He lifted one foot, then the other, and they drifted off.

“You ain’t.”

“I ain’t,” Micky agreed, California voice not really made for the word; it came out teasing by default. He smiled all the wider and kissed Mike again. “You could’a just fucked me there. None of them would’ve said anything.”

“You got a lot of ideas, Micky.” Some of his tone was good-natured exasperation, some of it honest-to-God frustration.

Micky chose to go with the kinder feelings and asked, cheeky, “Any good ones?”

“One or two.”

Mike kept stroking him slow and easy, and maybe it was revenge for all his grinding and squirming before. But it felt so nice that maybe it wasn’t. He met Mike’s mouth with his own once more and kissed him deep and slow. It tasted a little less like chlorine now. “Finger me?”

“There’s one,” Mike said.

Micky laughed, turning around though he didn’t much want to. He wanted to stare at Mike the entire time. He liked how it felt, seeing Mike, seeing what Mike was doing to him. But it was easier when they were standing to do it that way. Or maybe he was just too used to being with girls, used to it being so easy to slip a hand between their legs and fuck them with his fingers while they whined and pressed their face to his chest, that it just seemed harder in comparison.

Mike’s index finger slid in easy, so easy, so much easier than last time. It had hurt a little, laying in bed together with nothing to make it slicker. The water worked this time around to make everything nice and easy, though Micky figured they’d still need to be in a place to use proper lube to do anything more than that. But he was only distantly thinking of sex, like it was a place he was driving to early in the morning when no one else was taking up the highway. With Mike’s mouth kissing his neck, Mike’s finger inside of him, and Mike’s hand wrapped firm and stroking him off slow, it was easy not to be so worried; it had taken the edge off the need to get fucked hard. He would be pressing down on the gas if he was with a girl, but everything was so new this way that he almost didn’t mind that they were taking time. For a little while, that was enough to scratch the itch.

But then Mike’s finger stopped fucking him, just curled and pressed just the way he’d instructed before.

But then Mike stopped stroking him and instead started working just the head, palm rolling over the tip of his cock.

But then Mike was biting instead of kissing, definitely leaving a mark and definitely wanting to.

But then he was moaning and writhing and his knees went out but it didn’t matter, because Mike didn’t even have to work to keep him up the way he might if they were standing anywhere but in the water.

Then he was begging, “Fuck me, Mike, fuck me,” panting hard and actually wishing his legs _could_ give out properly so he could get away from how very, very good it felt, so overwhelming, so close, so close. He knew his cock was leaking, though he couldn’t feel the wetness of it. His muscles were just starting to go tight, drawing up for orgasm when Mike pulled away from him.

“That’s two,” Mike said, and it took several confusing seconds for Micky’s mind to stop reeling so he could figure out it was connected to his comment on ‘good ideas’.

It took a few more for him to work out that maybe _that_, going at him in the most sensitive ways and not the slow handjob, had been Mike getting back at him for teasing in Peter’s room.

“Get out of the pool, on the edge,” Mike instructed.

Micky turned himself around to face Mike, and it was only then when Mike wasn’t touching him to give even what little support Mike had given him mattered. His wobbly knees shuddered and buckled beneath his weight. He put his hands on the edge of the pool and drew himself out with shaking arms. He wasn’t so weak, not the way they made him out on show, but right then he was almost surprised he managed it. He slid back only enough to give Mike room and laid back on the cold stone tile, looking up at the stars in the sky. It wasn’t early in the morning like he’d pictured it would be when he’d talked to Mike, just late into the night. And maybe it wasn’t as stark as he had pictured in his head, either, not having taken into account the lights needed to illuminate the pool. The stars were beautiful all the same, and they were still brighter here than in Los Angeles where so many people were awake at all hours.

He was aware of Mike setting the tube of K-Y out next to him. He heard the splash of water and felt Mike’s hands next to his legs as Mike joined him. When Mike’s face came into view he knew he’d rather be looking there than at the sky, and Micky’s smile went wide enough to almost pinch his eyes shut. It was only when Mike’s cock pressed against his inner thigh that he knew that Mike had taken his shorts off in the water before joining him.

Mike reached for the lube but missed when Micky tipped his head up and kissed him. He tried again and got it, once they parted. He squirted some out into his palm and started to stroke himself.

“This is what you want, no horseshit?” Mike asked, angling himself.

Micky could feel the head of Mike’s cock, hot, slick, solid against him. If he slid closer, maybe even if he breathed just right, Mike would be inside of him. He hadn’t really understood why Mike seemed to doubt what he wanted, before; even talking dirty, even talking Kundalini, even talking fucking on Peter’s floor or on the bottom of the pool, he’d wanted it. He’d wanted all of it. He would’ve been happy with any of it. But Micky understood all at once what had confused Mike, when reality was pressed firm up against him and his heart stopped with fear. When his hearing went fuzzy as it had been when Mike pushed him into the pool. He understood the severity in a way he hadn’t when he was just running his mouth with no consequence.

He looked into Mike’s eyes and any doubt he had shriveled and fell away, leaves in the wind. He would’ve said yes, anyway; he’d built it up enough that he would’ve gone through with it just to let Mike get off. He nodded eagerly, and laughed a little as he said, “Yes, Mike—” and he would’ve said something dirty, but instead he was left gasping. He’d been right in thinking how easy it would be; the laughing had shifted something, loosened him, and the head of Mike’s cock slipped inside of him without either of them trying.

Mike started rocking his hips, going deeper fractionally on each stroke. It hurt a little, maybe, but only in the way of running or lifting weights. The slow burn ache that came with any stretch; the sort of hurt that was almost in itself satisfying.

And it was so… fulfilling. So overwhelming, even before Mike got going, just pushed in and stayed deep. Micky stared up at Mike, his eyes wet with emotion. It made Mike blur in his vision, and the lights above gave it all a glow that was pretty if he thought on it. He’d never cried during sex before and he didn’t really want to start, though if asked he couldn’t explain why that was; he was more than willing to cry, whenever he couldn’t contain himself. “Shoot,” he mumbled, laughing, rubbing his eyes. He meant it as a way to tell Mike to get on with it, even though it drew more attention to the whole thing.

Mike leaned on one arm so that he could pull Micky’s hand away from his face and lace their fingers together.

“None of that,” Mike said.

It wasn’t scolding him for being near tears, but for dismissing it.

Micky looked down at their hands for a moment. He’d never held hands during sex before, either.

The air was expectant.

Micky smiled. There weren’t many people who could scold him without making him actually feel bad. Mike could and did cut people down—he was good at it, as a matter of fact—but Micky often found that somehow Mike always told him he was wrong in a way that built him up.

“I can feel your heartbeat. _In_ me,” Micky said. Saying it made him want to cry, too, but he just laughed a little in disbelief. The realization of that absolutely floored him. He had expected closeness, of course he had, but he hadn’t realized the breadth of it. He could feel everything so clearly. He’d never felt so connected to anyone; he always liked to be open, raw, honest about himself, but he’d never felt so vulnerable.

This, he knew, was what Peter had told him about. Whether it was Kundalini, whether they were sharing their Christian souls, whatever he had he was giving it to Mike. He’d said things like _Take me, I’m yours!_ As a laugh before; it was silly and overdramatic, right up his alley. But he felt laid bare then, cut to the quick. Whatever he had was Mike’s for the taking.

Mike looked at him for a moment, then kissed him deeply. Their hands stayed linked together, but for a moment Mike stopped caring about keeping their bodies apart. They laid together, holding each other, barely moving in the way that usually mattered with sex. Mike rocked his hips just a little and Micky breathed soft moans into his mouth.

Whatever Micky felt like he’d given up was replaced, refilled.

It took a long while to do more than that. The air started to get a chill to it, raising the skin along their arms. Maybe they would’ve kept at it that way if it wasn’t so hard to come with the soft, rocking, boat-on-a-lake motions.

Eventually Mike drew himself back up. He and Micky looked at each other and laughed, boyishly, not knowing what else to do. Mike had never talked about this sort of thing before. Micky had talked the emotions of sex a few times, but it had been a while; being a musician, getting famous, sex was almost like drugs: often fun, but so rarely did it stir anything this way. The closest he’d been recently was talking frank and open with Mike in their hotel room, and even that had been undercut with raunchy, dirty nothings before and since.

Mike started fucking him hard. It wasn’t hard the way dirty pictures made it out to be, or even in the way Micky, himself, often went towards it, fast and sharp, shallow and jack-hammering. Mike pulled out far, drove back deep, slow but strong, now and then rolling his hips when their bodies met. It was fucking with confidence; he was just sure of himself; Mike was always so sure. Every withdrawal and every thrust in lit Micky’s nerves on fire.

Mike had been right not to want to do this in a thin-walled room right next to everyone else in the band, never mind Jimi and his band, _The Sundowners,_ the roadies, their managers and wranglers. Micky was loud, whimpering and moaning and screaming. One hand clawed at Mike’s shoulders, fingers digging in with desperation. His other hand dropped to his cock. He jerked himself fast, not keeping pace with Mike’s thrusts. He regretted it a bit, wanting it to last, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Mike stopped him instead, hand to his wrist. “I’ll get you.”

Micky didn't answer right away. He had to wind down a bit, panting, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. This is nice, Mick, don’t rush it.”

“Mm. It is nice, isn’t it?” Then he grinned, pure cheese. "You said you wanted me to write more songs. Maybe I'll write something about your--"

He rested his hand on the small of Mike’s back. Maybe that reminded Mike, or maybe it actually awoke something, because Mike said suddenly, sincere, cutting him off, “I see you.” He didn’t finish it with _the way God does_; that seemed like a dramatic flourish to Mike, in the same vein of Micky wanting to fuck in front of people or without gravity or whatever weird, grandiose thing floated through his mind. If Mike said something like that it would have been at least a little ironic, not the earnest way Micky meant it to be. But the truth was that Mike felt the core of it. He agreed with the part that mattered, the essence of the thing.

Micky understood what he meant even without the dramatic ending. His gaze softened. There was no attempt to pick back up on his joke. His smile turned sweet, no teeth showing but a little blinding anyway. “I see you, too, Mike.”

Mike’s hand replaced his own, wrapping around his cock. Mike did keep the tempo, hand sliding up and down nice and slow, thumb rubbing across the slit whenever he stayed close and ground their hips together.

That way was better, no doubt about it, even if it did take long enough to drive Micky absolutely wild.

Micky almost felt high when he came. He didn’t say Mike’s name when he did, just moaned low, but he was thinking of Mike. In pictures, words, touch, taste, smells, Mike painting a picture behind his eyelids with every sense he had. It was something abstract; blues and oranges and pinks and greens swirling into a nebula, stretching out across the black of the inside of his eyelids like a landscape. But he knew the abstract was Mike; he felt deep in his bones that it was. Some deep, vast, beautiful thing he couldn’t ever explain but which satisfied him anyway. When he opened his eyes, he looked past Mike’s cheek to the stars in the sky and felt dizzied.

He listened to the slap of skin as Mike kept fucking him. He didn’t beg for Mike to come. He knew Mike was close anyway; the thrusts turned quick and shortened, Mike’s breath coming out sharp.

He let out a groan that matched Mike’s own when Mike came inside him. He could feel every hot pulse that filled him, and the knowledge that he’d made it happen hit him in an unexplainable way.

They laid together in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the night. There was a cricket chirping. The leaves were rustling together in the breeze. If they listened especially hard they could hear the music from inside the hotel. Peter and the rest were still playing, and probably would be until morning.

“You feeling good?” Mike asked, kissing him, words almost lost into his mouth.

“’Good’! Try amazing. Fantastic, spectacular,” Micky breathed out, each word reverent. “You?”

“Not bad.”

Micky stuttered a laugh. Mike kissed him again, catching it in his mouth. Mike seemed to say a lot of things meant only for Mike to find them funny; Micky thought he was pretty lucky, that Micky found them funny, too.

“This is why _I_ was the car salesman,” Micky said, though when he was working with cars it had been mostly as a mechanic. He’d sold them, too, but only because the dealership was small. He was going to go into a whole bit, with Mike as a salesman saying something about how a ’49 Ford wasn’t _so_ bad if you didn’t mind your doors swinging open if you went above thirty—Mike liked cars as well as he did and would get it—but then Mike was kissing him again, this time not letting up for him to talk.

He found he didn’t care as much about making jokes when Mike’s tongue was in his mouth.

Mike went back to what they’d done before. Kissing and rocking together. It took another very long time for him to pull out. Even then he didn’t seem tired of it, his hands roaming, touching everywhere. Micky bent one knee so Mike could finger him easier, though he didn’t know why Mike wanted to at all when they were both spent. It still felt nice and he didn’t bother asking.

Eventually Mike seemed to have gotten what he’d wanted out of it all. He drew away and said, “Come swim with me.”

The water wasn’t heated but hadn’t yet gone cold from the night, and it felt very warm compared to the air.

They swam, talking and laughing, until they started to shiver.


	13. July 12: North Carolina, July 13: New York

They made a good choice, that show: Jimi finally got out of the ‘death spot’, as he called it; coming on _first_ instead of right before The Monkees, the big name, the thing all the crowd wanted to see. And, sure, maybe that would mean that some other band got the boos and the jeers and the _We want Davy! We want The Monkees! _but then again maybe not; The Sundowners and Lynne Randell didn’t have such an uphill climb. Either way, it worked. There weren’t any screams of unrest and there weren’t even any half-hearted cheers of a crowd trying to be polite with waning patience. There were actual cries for encores, actual desire to listen to more of the strange, ethereal, rock-and-roll played like no one else alive.

It was so good in fact that Jimi stepped out with his band to start signing autographs for the kids that were well and truly eager for him. It was for a moment, almost a laugh to see the turnaround. And almost endearing to see so many little children crowding up to Jimi, still tripping on acid, covered in sweat, his bright shirt swung open, to get an autograph. It wasn’t _The Monkees_ fans that got at Jimi that go around.

Instead it was their parents.

When _they_ crowded Jimi, it was to yell about wanting a respectable show to take their children to. The lewd acts he simulated with his guitar! His state of undress! His—at some point, their complaints were said straight to his retreating middle finger.

Even The Monkees’ own show was a little dampened by that. Though there weren’t many times in life you’d see a guy flip off a group of angry parents that way, and they found it at least funny enough not to mind the anger from the older half of their crowd. It was always hard to see the faces from the audience when up on stage, anyway.

They smoked with Jimi and the rest of the _Experience_ after the show, after all their things had already been gathered up for them to head to New York.

“It’s not that we blame you,” Jimi was saying, “But we’re a ghost act.”

He was right. Jimi and his band had gotten billing for Florida, but that was an anomaly. The North Carolina dates read only _The Monkees!_ on the posters slapped across the cities they were playing in. There weren’t any headliners listed. And sometimes that worked in their favor; when they’d played the Rheingold Beer festival in New York, for instance, it had benefited them. They’d shaken the crowd so much with only four songs that The Young Rascals almost didn’t feel they could follow him—only managed to work up the nerve after giving an hour’s silence between Jimi’s set and their own. Being a ghost act worked with that crowd, a crowd of full-grown adults paying a buck for the entire night. It would never work with kids going along with their parents; middle-to-upper class kids paying almost eight bucks a seat, waiting in line for hours just to pile in.

“I’ll go out with a Sharpie and write your names on all the posters,” Micky offered, joking, to calm the air a bit. And Jimi laughed. But if Jimi had actually wanted it, he would have done it for real. He was nutty enough to do it for anyone, but he also felt a personal responsibility in hauling Jimi along. He’d been so enamored he hadn’t thought out the logistics of getting an unknown to headline for them—someone who hadn’t earned the right to be named on posters because outside of Monterey Jimi meant nothing—never mind an unknown like _The Experience_. Bert and Bob had wanted zany wild-haired boys in casting The Monkees, but they’d also wanted accessible. Jimi, black, high, a rock-and-roller who acted like he was fucking his guitar right in front of everyone, was not accessible to their audience.

It was a reality that Micky’d been dumb to from the start, and was only just beginning to realize how big of a gap there’d been to bridge.

“It’s all right,” Jimi said, in what felt like the hundredth time he’d had to say it. “New York’s our place.” They got cheers clubbing all around New England. And Micky himself knew for a fact how well-loved they were in New York. He’d seen them in New York and loved them, himself.

Micky smiled and nodded.

He’d also loved them all across Florida and North Carolina, and knew now his opinion on it didn’t count for much.

They all talked on it a little longer, but eventually it turned to playing, as it was so easy to do. Micky caught Davy’s eyes and lifted his eyebrows, and Davy nodded his head. They had the least to do, in sessions like this, because they had no instruments to play. And in truth, what was played was often instrumental; as much as they liked being observers, it was easy to feel at least a little left out of it. So together they left, not even bothering with goodbyes.

They started down the hallway with no particular destination.

“You want to get management to bring some girls up, see if you can disappoint another one before we leave North Carolina?” Davy asked.

Micky laughed and gave Davy a shove. “Nah,” he said. A beat, then a rebuttal, “I think _you’ve_ done enough damage.”

Davy laughed, but the back of his hand went to feel Micky’s forehead. “You feeling all right? Usually when you’re out all I’ve got to do is wave a girl under your nose.”

That was true. They worked better than smelling salts any day of the week. Especially the tall, leggy ones. For a second Micky amused himself thinking of Davy, dressed as a doctor, coming in with a six-foot tall girl tucked under his arm like a suitcase to wave under his nose and wake him up. He shook himself from the thought and said, shrugging, “I guess I feel lousy about Jimi.”

That was also true, and also not. Traveling was exhausting. Knowing he’d set Jimi up for failure when he respected him so much was gut-wrenching. The idea of the tour ending, leaving them to manage their own music just like Peter and Mike had wanted, was horrible. There were a lot of things right then, he was thinking, that would have been best left to the professionals to handle. All of them, except for maybe Davy who had known best not to fight for agency or go to the bigwigs demanding a new opening act, had brought that down on their heads in one way or another. Just another role to play in addition to the two full-time jobs they already had of actors and musicians.

It sounded nicer to crawl into bed with Mike, which was at once comforting and familiar and new and thrilling, than it did to ask one of the roadies to go grab a groupie for him.

Davy rolled his eyes. “That’s not your fault. I’ll tell you I wouldn’t have picked him, myself, but you weren’t the one who signed him. And you’re—”

“You wouldn’t’ve?”

“No. You’re out of your head. I wouldn’t’ve gotten_ The Who_ , either. Keith Moon up there, breaking his drums, yelling bloody murder. Come off it. Just because they’re talented—As a matter of fact! You ought to be picking people _less_ talented, if you’re picking anyone at all. Warm ups are warm ups for a reason. Nothing against Bobby, Kim, and them, y’know. I like them very much. But they’re a better warm up.” To his credit, Davy would have probably said exactly the same thing straight to _The Sundowners'_ faces. A lot of people liked Davy, and Micky liked him more than almost anyone else did. But it wasn’t because he spared feelings. He was kind and generous, but he would never sugarcoat what he thought. Frankly Micky usually found that to be a good quality; he was still trying to unlearn all the tiptoeing and sugarcoating he did to keep the peace, himself. He preferred the British bluntness Davy had, even when it came to Davy calling him ugly right to his face. “You know, those fellows in New York—”

“The Young Rascals,” Micky said, because he had had the same thought inside Jimi’s room, and because he and Davy were often on the same wavelength.

“They didn’t come out for what?”

“An hour.”

“An _hour_ after ‘e went on! After they got billed an’ ‘e didn’t! So the crowd could forget how good he was! Imagine that! If we set ourselves back an hour every bloody show just so we didn’t get upstaged by our opening act! Insane. You should count your blessings they don’t like ‘im.”

Micky started to object to that one, but Davy cut him off:

“I’m speaking professionally only, understand. Personally, I’d sit and cheer for him as soon as you would.”

Micky nodded. But he said, “But he’s so good, babe. It’s really giving them their money’s worth! They oughta be thrilled!”

“Maybe,” Davy said. “But maybe there’s a reason you didn’t pick the line-up, yeah?”

“You know, for it ‘not being my fault’, you’re sure blaming me a lot.”

Davy waved that off. “It’s not your fault. I know you feel bad for Jimi. So do me and Mike and Peter. And it’s more your fault than any of ours, but don’t beat yourself up over it. Martyrdom’s not a good look on anybody. There’s people above you who’ve got to answer for this mess. But I’m not talking to them, am I?”

Micky considered that, shrugged his shoulders, and nodded. Davy had a funny talent in being able to make him feel better while not being at all cajoling.

“Now!” Davy said, “That’s that, then. Do you want to get a girl, now?”

“What, to split?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

Micky put a hand out, waving to indicate Davy’s height against his own. “I think more seventy-thirty.”

Davy mimed punching him, but said, “So, yes, then?”

“Not really.”

“Fuck off!” A beat, then a smile, and “Do you at least want to get a drink?”

“I’d love it.”

+++

When they got settled in New York, Peter came into his room unannounced. Not that he really expected announcements. He was lucky no one locked their doors, himself, or he’d be running face first into an awful lot of them.

“You mind if we talk?” Peter asked.

Micky did, a little, because flying made him jet-lagged and cranky. And because if Peter couldn’t talk circles around him, he sure as hell could think them. That was pretty exhausting to keep up with even if he wasn’t crabby. “Sure, go ahead, Pete,” he said, but he didn’t so much as sit up in his bed to make himself more accommodating.

“I think we need to talk about you and Michael.”

“What about me and Mike?” Micky asked, forcing himself not to sit bolt-upright like a cartoon character. He had many cartoon character habits that did nothing for discretion. He could have asked how Peter knew, but he knew how Peter knew. Maybe sitting in Mike’s lap didn’t mean much, since they’d all sat in each other’s laps at one point or another. But Mike had been hard in his swim trunks, ready to burst as he’d forced Micky out of the room. If it had been an accident or an incidental thing, the way of morning wood or stiff breezes, he would have just kicked Micky out of his lap. Maybe made a comment to laugh it off, the way he and Davy did with each other. He could piece it together easily. He wasn’t playing dumb for any reason other than the fact he knew Mike wanted it a secret.

Peter stared at him for several analyzing seconds. There wasn’t anything cruel or calculating there. It was just plain, open consideration. “I’ve invited you to my parties plenty of times. You know I don’t care if you have sex with men.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Peter leveled that same expression at him once more, then offered, “I’ve had sex with a man before. It’s not my scene, but I understand the appeal.” An olive branch.

“Fantastic,” Micky said, short and sour. If he were in a different mood he’d actually be curious, because he hadn’t thought Peter’d ever fucked anyone but women despite the free-loving that went on at his house as often as he could get an audience.

Peter didn’t always catch on quickly when Micky was annoyed with him. Or maybe it was one of those things Peter was ignoring intentionally, on account of the fact Micky didn’t tend to escalate to actual fighting without something to feed off of; he’d get a snappy attitude but not much else. Davy and Mike could escalate from nothing. This meant that of all of them, he and Peter probably got in the fewest fights, all told, despite the fact he didn’t feel the closest to Peter. He might eventually get snappy and Peter might eventually get pedantic and condescending, but for the most part they’d just whine about it on their own terms and eventually make up by having an actual adult discussion.

“You know, I didn’t like you when I first met you,” Peter said.

“Peter, I’m going to sue you for whiplash. I’m calling my attorney in the morning.”

“Let’s settle it out of court. Even if you’re out for blood I trust you more than our legal system.”

“I don’t have a lawyer, anyway.” Despite both of them teasing, there were kernels of truth on both ends. Not for the first time, Micky thought he ought to get real legal representation. But he could table that thought for sometime other than being crabby at Peter. “Get to the point and I’ll forgive you.”

“Thanks a lot, Micky,” Peter said, a smile in his voice. “I thought you were a real phony person.”

The words _real phony_ were such an irony that Micky thought of Mike, who liked wordplay very much. He hated that Mike was his first thought, knowing that the affection there was the true and real point of what Peter was going to say, no matter the secondary point that he was going to get to, now. He shook off the brief, fond thought and finally sat up to look Peter over properly.

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“You came in talking all the time and bouncing off the walls. Climbing all the furniture, all over the set. No real person’s like that. I figured you were a liar.”

“A liar?” Micky echoed.

“Well, insincere. Loud, brash, and inconsiderate, too. And when it came to politics—"

“I know, about the politics,” Micky said, not trying to be rude, just knowing it was something that Peter could easily derail himself with. As much as he wouldn’t mind derailing, he wanted to talk politics about as much as he wanted to talk about Mike.

“I changed my mind about you when you came on set and gave me a daisy chain you made,” Peter said. He laughed a little, very fond. “Real hippie stuff. I thought you were going to cry. It made _me_ want to cry.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Micky muttered. A nothing phrase, not really meant to do anything. He remembered the day Peter meant; he’d made a whole lot of those daisy chains and given them out to the cast and crew. Even the ones he didn’t think would appreciate it, like Mike, just because he didn’t want to risk leaving anyone out on it. Maybe Mike didn’t get it the way Peter had, but he’d gotten it on some silly level at the least, and had worn it as an accoutrement, a crown put right on top of his hat.

“I started to recognize when you were posturing,” Peter said. “And why you were doing it. I like people much better when they’re being sincere. I’d rather you be straight with me now, Micky.”

“And if I don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Then say you don’t wanna talk about it, man.”

Sometimes, especially when it came to people like Peter who he saw almost all day every day, Micky forgot that was an option; there was a choice besides either open discussion and fighting. It wasn’t very often any of them just _didn’t talk_ about anything.

“I don’t care about the nitty-gritty,” Peter added. “But I want to know if whatever you’ve got going on with Mike’s why you’ve been taking his side in things, with _Headquarters_ and everything else.”

“Of course not, Pete,” Micky said, the truth so plain that he couldn’t even try to take the ‘not talking about it’ out he’d been given. “I just respect Mike’s opinion, you know that.”

“And you don’t respect mine?”

Somehow even that question didn’t seem to be picking a fight. It was an actual curiosity, bordering on an actual hurt. It wasn’t a secret to Micky that Peter was starting to feel like the odd man out, and in good part that was Mike’s doing. And maybe it was his doing, too; he had no real stake in the game from a musical standpoint, but he liked Mike’s taste in music more than he did Peter’s, and if pressed he’d take Mike’s side almost every time. Davy liked Peter more than Mike, but he didn’t care about who-did-what-or-why one way or the other. He’d leave it to the rest of them to work out unless pushed, which often left Micky the deciding vote.

“That’s not what I meant,” Micky said. “I respect you, Pete. You got more talent in your pinky than I got in my whole body, when it comes to playing instruments. When I agree with Mike it’s just ‘cause I agree with him, not ‘cause of anything else. Promise.”

There was a beat. “All right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You aren’t gonna be pissed at me next time I don’t pick your song or something?”

“I’ll be pissed,” Peter said, “Because I have confidence in my vision. But as long as you’re being objective, I won’t be pissed at _you_.”

Micky considered that. He knew it didn’t work out that way in practice. Maybe Peter wasn’t even mad at Mike as much as he was mad at Mike’s vision sometimes, but when it boiled down to it it was all the same thing. You couldn’t yell at the vision, only the person supporting it. But he was willing to take it at face value.

“Listen, Pete. About Mike… He doesn’t dig me or anything, man. I’ve been really needling him to fuck around with me. ‘Cause I’ve been curious, since one of your parties. One of the guys there sucked me off, one time.”

All of that was true in its core. Though he hoped it’d make Peter let Mike off the hook, he at least didn’t feel like a liar in saying it.

“Wait until we’re back in California. I can turn you on to some guys who really know their stuff.”

Micky balked. “_’Some’_ guys? You know I don’t do the orgy thing. Your parties turn me into a wallflower! Too many hands, all over. I wouldn’t know what to do.” He might’ve joked about it, but the idea of pleasing more than one person at a time made him anxious.

“You just go with the flow, babe.” Peter was walking to the door without answering the concern.

“Peter!”

“All right, no orgies,” Peter agreed, laughing, as the door shut behind him.

+++

Mike woke up to a mouth against his inner thigh, right where his boxers ended. He shifted, looked down, and Micky’s eyes caught his, smiling up at him with only his gaze. He settled his head back against the pillow and shut his eyes again. It turned out he wasn’t surprised by the company even though he hadn’t extended an invitation.

It felt like several minutes passed. Mike almost felt like he’d dozed off again, that strange grogginess that felt like he’d fallen in a time warp where he’d either missed seconds or hours. Micky had moved, but not the way Mike had expected; he was just kissing his calves, massaging his hips and thighs. Moving, technically, but the arousal it was starting to stir was from expectation instead of any payoff. He at some point worked Mike’s boxers off, but did nothing with that fact.

“You gonna suck my dick?” Mike asked eventually, like maybe Micky needed permission. He looked down at Micky again.

Micky smiled, this time with his mouth instead of just his eyes. “No, thanks. I know where it’s been.”

Instead he parted Mike’s legs a little more and shifted up, kissing close enough to his ass that Mike asked, “You expecting me to return the favor?”

“Oh, it’s a ‘favor’ now, is it? You gonna write out an I.O.U.?”

He was joking, but he still had an edge to his voice that Mike would describe as ‘bitchy’ if asked. Mike found the tone funnier than the joke, but was good at being straight-faced and hid his amusement. “That’s what I’m asking.”

“No; you’ve already got a stick up there. No room for me.”

That time Mike did laugh.

Micky thought, then sat up and asked, “Would you?”

“Pull the stick out?”

Micky grinned. “Yeah.”

Mike thought for a moment. “That’s the fair way to go about it.”

Micky rolled his eyes. “Would you _want_ to?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He didn’t sound bothered or surprised. “All right if I touch you there? No funny business,” he added.

Mike could guess at what he meant. Touching him, intimately, but no insertion. Maybe it was something he should have asked for clarification on, as that seemed something to be very specifically clear about. He trusted Micky enough and trusted himself to catch Micky’s meaning enough that he didn’t ask after it. “That’s fine,” he decided.

“You know, I like your body a helluva lot,” Micky informed him, both hands sliding up and down his cock, more in a way of literal heavy petting than traditional stroking.

“Some parts more than others, huh?” Mike returned, only because he didn’t know how else to answer something like that. He didn’t often receive compliments on his looks. Strangely, one who gave him the most compliments for his appearance was Davy, who thought he could make it in movies like Laurence Olivier or Gregory Peck. Something which Mike disagreed with, and which Davy seemed glad he had no interest in, somehow seeing it as more competition than it would be between himself and actual pre-existing movie stars. Regardless, Mike often _did_ receive compliments on how big his cock was—it wasn’t even all that necessary for girls to see him naked for them to say something, so it was an easy thing to go to with or without Micky touching him.

Micky laughed a little and ducked his head. It was a funny time to seem shy, Mike thought, which made it endearing. “I don’t want to say how much I like these parts.”

“No?”

Micky shook his head. “Seems like a bad idea to get too candid,” he said mildly.

Even excluding the fact that Micky had made no secret of liking the sex both during and after the fact, Mike thought that answer was candid in and of itself, personally. Micky wasn’t the poker-playing type, though Mike thought he had a decent set of acting chops and should’ve been able to manage it in theory. Even holding his cards to his chest you’d get something from his face or the tilt of his shoulders. “Think I’ll hold it against you if you liked it too much?”

“Oh, _please_ hold it against me, Nez,” Micky teased in return, stroking Mike’s cock with a bit more vigor. They grinned at each other, then Micky answered earnestly, “No. I don’t know. I liked it a lot, when you fucked me.”

“That’s not being candid?”

“Not as much as I could be.”

Mike let out a little hum, considering that. “I liked it a lot, too.” He felt childish saying that, in a way he didn’t often, these days.

Micky relaxed a little, shoulders sinking to something more neutral. Maybe that had been what he’d been angling after in waking Mike up to start with. Mike looked to the clock and saw it was still in the P.M., and hadn't gotten anywhere close to the fourteenth. Usually they'd let each other sleep if they needed to on the days they weren't playing, so long as they weren't missing out on some important interview. Maybe he needed some confirmation that it wasn’t going to cause a rift in the band, now that there’d been a full day to change Mike’s mind. Now that they'd spent time without touching each other. And maybe that was fair enough; there were already so many hairline fractures. And sometimes Mike wanted to go out on the thin ice and stomp until it broke. Micky, for all his other horrible, impulsive tendencies that had made Mike worried about this whole mess, had never seemed to have that inclination.

After a moment Micky said, “But I wasn’t talking about that, anyway. Your eyes are my favorite, if you wanna know the truth. And your hair. I thought you dyed it, the first time I saw you. Like Elvis. Not many people got hair like yours. I was kinda jealous.”

Mike’s eyes went to Micky’s own hair, which was starting to go natural now that they’d been off on tour and away from shooting for the show for so long. “You’d look terrible.” He didn’t add the part that as it stood Micky looked very handsome. Maybe beautiful. Especially right then, with the only light being the lamp on the table next to the bed. Micky had strong, sharp features, and the shadows made them all the starker. His hair looked beautiful, too, right then.

Micky laughed. He leaned over Mike and kissed him slow and full on the lips. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too honest?” he asked, the words half-lost into Mike’s mouth.

“Well, no. They call me an asshole, but from the right person it means the same.” 

Micky made an absolutely horrible noise of amusement right against Mike’s lips. “Close your eyes and relax. I’m gonna make you feel good.”

“You coulda just let me sleep,” Mike said, “That was feelin’ good with my eyes closed and it took a whole lot less effort on your part.”

“Aw, shuddup.”

Mike shrugged and closed his eyes. One of Micky’s hands was back to his cock, stroking him properly this time, if a little messily, while Micky kissed down his chest. He listened close to the soft sound of kisses, the arrhythmic sound of getting jerked off, and his own breath starting to grow shallow. Pretty as Micky’s voice was when he asked, “You like having your nipples played with?” it jarred Mike just a little.

“I don’t know.”

“Girls haven’t gone for ‘em?”

“They’re kinda hairy,” Mike said reasonably, and that was part of it. The other part was that he was more conservative than the rest of the band, in some ways. He went for the traditional, and traditionally it was only girls who wanted that kind of a thing.

“I like hairy. You know what tastes great? Aqua Net. I love it. When I’m fucking a girl with a big bouffant from behind and her hair gets in my mouth…Yes, please!”

What Mike got from that, for one, was Micky was a freak. This was no secret to him, anyway, of course. But he was also in a way charmed that he used the word ‘bouffant’, instead of just saying ‘big hair’ or some other nonspecific, the way a lot of men would. It made Mike open his eyes and look down again, just so he could touch Micky’s hair a bit.

Micky’s eyes ticked up to him, but only for a second. His tongue traced Mike’s nipple in lazy circles, making it grow hard with the warmth of his mouth. He took time, teasing and gently biting before going back to the gentle side, before he withdrew. “Is it doin’ anything for you?” he asked, really not able to tell. Mike’s breath had already been a little short from stroking his cock.

“Not much.” It didn’t feel bad; felt good, maybe, even, but whatever was there was undercut with some self-conscious ungraspable thing that he couldn’t pin down enough to dismiss.

“That’s too bad. You can make me come, playing with mine.”

“No touching your dick?”

“No. I mean, I usually do, anyway. But I don’t have to.”

“I bet touching anything could make you come,” Mike said, dismissive. “Here, come up here a second. I’m gonna try and get you, real quick. Just touching one part of you.”

That was hard to say no to despite his interest in pleasing Mike, so Micky slid back up, looking Mike eye-to-eye. “Whatcha gonna do?”

Mike cupped Micky’s face in both hands, kissing him. That was definitely a good start, and Micky was parting his lips to deepen it when Mike drew away. He looked fondly at Mike, turning his face into one of Mike’s hands to kiss the heel of his palm.

Mike, laying on an over-the-top sultry smolder, grabbed Micky by both ears and started to wiggle them between his fingers like Dumbo trying to fly.

Mike’s silence was smug. Micky’s was big-eyed, stupefied.

“That get you, Mick?”

“Yeah, you got me all right,” Micky grumped. But despite himself, Mike being so silly was in fact arousing, even if it didn’t make him come; he’d been half-erect already, and that helped him the rest of the way. And with him laying on top of Mike as he was, Mike absolutely noticed it was an actual turn-on and started laughing. That made it impossible to keep up the pretense of annoyance, and Micky started laughing, too. “Spread your legs for me. I still wanna be nice to you, even if you don’t deserve it.”

Mike obliged, despite opening himself that way stirring the same squirming self-conscious thing that Micky touching his nipples had.

“I bet girls have never touched you here, either,” Micky said soft against Mike’s neck, his fingers going past Mike’s balls, touching the skin between them and his asshole.

“You’d make money on that one.”

Micky pressed his fingers there firmly and started to massage the so-sensitive spot that lay beyond, inside of Mike.

Mike made a noise—the first kind of noise that actually made Micky shush him instead of the reverse. But his shushing was amused instead of sincere, anyway, half laughing, the shh so caught up in giggles that it was in itself loud. And he only did it at all so Mike couldn’t accuse him of not caring if they made too much noise. Though he really didn’t care at all.

“You feel good, baby?” Micky asked. But this time he knew the answer, because Mike didn’t stop making those noises in spite of his giggle-shushing. He knew why, from the first time a girl had done this to him. It was like learning to masturbate for the first time, all over again. It was an entirely new way of making yourself feel good, and it felt nothing like jerking off; getting sucked off; fucking someone.

Mike didn’t immediately answer, just groaned and writhed. Micky was resting his head on Mike’s shoulder, watching the precome gather on Mike’s stomach as his cock jerked, spasmed. It looked so nice that he didn’t want to stroke Mike off and block the view.

Mike put his hand over Micky’s to stop him, and Micky’s gaze obediently went to Mike’s face a second too slow.

“This what it was like when I fucked you?” Mike asked. His voice was tight, and Micky understood with dirty pleasure that the only reason Mike had stopped him was to be able to speak at all.

“Naw. It felt better when you fucked me,” Micky returned. He kissed Mike’s shoulder.

“No kidding?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Huh.” Mike let Micky go so he could resume.

“I could fuck you _if_ you don’t believe me,” Micky said. 

Mike laughed. “I believe you. Keep doing what you're doing.”

“Shucks,” Micky said. If he had moved his fingers then, it would’ve been to snap them. He pressed his face into Mike’s skin as he went back to massaging. Mike, in turn, went back to moaning.

Micky shifted, angling himself to rut against Mike’s side, breathing heavy in Mike’s ear. At some point, in the middle of it all he'd come in his boxers from it. He'd stiffen and groan, and Mike would be so lost in what Micky's fingers were still doing that he almost wouldn't notice.

It took longer to come doing that than maybe anything Mike had ever experienced, outside of all-night long lovemaking which involved joining together and falling apart again and again in a meandering way. There was nothing meandering to this, but the build was slow and steady and absolutely, absolutely worth it. Coming that way was different, mind-blowing, mind-expanding. It was full-bodied, back-arching, head-to-toes, shoulder-to-fingertips, a warm heat in the stomach, shaking from exertion, so sensitive he could barely stand it. It was something so different from the cock-and-balls exclusive pleasure that he’d always known an orgasm to be.

It took so long to recover from that Micky was asleep against him by the time Mike thought to say anything, though he stirred enough to return the kiss that Mike gave him.

He was almost glad that Micky had fallen asleep; it was such a singular kind of experience that it sent Mike’s mind reeling, and he had a feeling he would have talked too much on it if Micky were awake to hear it.


	14. July 14-15: New York

Micky yelped when Mike’s palm struck him squarely across the ass.

“Get up and take a shower.”

Micky didn’t immediately, instead just turning his head to look Mike over. Mike was fresh from the shower himself, naked, hair mussed from being towel-dried but getting better as he started to comb it. The steamy air from the shower brought out all the fresh-clean smells; shampoo, soap, and scrubbed skin. “Why do you gotta wake me up the one way that’s a turn-off, if you’re gonna walk around naked?” he grumped, though it didn’t stop him from watching Mike walk around bare-assed.

“That’s your one?” Mike asked.

His tone almost calculating, like it was a put-on and he was working out the joke. Micky could respect the thought; if you asked anyone what dirty, secret thing they were into, one of the top answers would be spanking. And heck, why wouldn’t it be? He got the thrill of a little pain, the adrenaline-shock of being bitten or scratched or pushed around. Despite that, the only put-on was that he cared at that very moment: he knew Mike had meant it as an attention-getter and not to arouse him, anyway. It landed different when sex wasn’t part of the equation. He had the fleeting thought to tell Mike he hadn’t really been bothered, but he didn’t feel like clarifying to avoid mixed messages.

“Man, it makes me think of getting in trouble with my folks. So, I guess it’s one of two: Don’t spank me or sit me down and give me a stern talking-to.”

Mike let out a little huff, not quite a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Micky rolled out of bed then. He had a feeling that ‘a stern talking-to’ would follow, anyway, if he didn’t get up and get ready. He was pretty sure that he still had plenty of time considering Davy hadn’t started trying to hunt him down, but Mike was strict in getting things done in a different kind of way. Davy liked being presentable and liked optimizing the amount of time he could spend talking to the press and kissing babies, and therefore had a set timeline for things to be done in. He knew exactly when they’d have to be dressed, hair done, out the door. Mike didn’t care about the press or babies. He just liked being in control, which meant you had exactly however long it took for him to comment on it before it started winding him up. If there was a set timeline, it was stored deep in Mike’s head where Micky had no access to it.

“Hey, listen!” Micky started as he stripped his boxers, “I oughta talk to you—"

“Will it keep until after the show?”

Micky paused. He shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

“Then save it.”

Micky glanced at the clock. If he hadn’t recognized the power play before, he would have then: there was plenty of time to spare a conversation. He considered it, then smiled. “Yes, sir,” he agreed, giving a salute.

Mike looked at him a moment, considering. “You’re out of uniform,” he said, deadpan.

Micky snorted and his eyes swept Mike’s equally-naked body. “Court martial me later,” he said over his shoulder as he walked off to shower.

+++

None of The Monkees had really talked to Jimi’s managers before. It wouldn’t have been impossible exactly, seeing as they were right there alongside Jimi the whole way. But management on both sides was at least a little combative. They weren’t looking for the bands to comingle. Handlers with _The Monkees_ emblazoned on their jackets or Jimi’s considerably smaller team had at the start tried to wrangle them, only giving up when it proved futile. Had the bands themselves not wanted to hang around each other so badly, there wouldn’t have been any interaction at all. Adding to that that management had other things to do than hang around every second of the bands’ downtime and, well, it wasn’t any surprise that they didn’t talk much.

Outside of the ‘hey-how-are-yous’ that happened in passing and maybe a bit of admiration of Chas for having played with _The Animals_, Micky had talked to Jimi’s managers kind-of-sort-of, once. Chas Chandler seemed nice enough. His personality wasn’t such that Micky was struck by it one way or the other. His presence was the thing that made an impression: Chas was very tall. The kind of tall the casting directors would go to when hiring bad guys on the show. Meaning, he was a solid few inches taller than Mike. But Chas had a soft, round face and walked with his neck curved to lose some of the excess height. It was always a good sign when tall guys didn’t tip their chin back to seem even taller.

Micky wasn’t so short, himself, and between that and being an actor, he was well-acquainted with posturing. He wasn’t any good at it even when he wanted to be: he had a soft, high voice and a puppy-dog affect that made him better at making friends and picking up girls than being a sharp-shooter. Mike was good at posturing. So was Davy, despite not having the height to him. They both had sharp enough edges that even if they were just running their mouths they could get a crowd to believe that they were tough guys. Micky didn’t have that, and neither did Chas.

Michael Jeffery, Jimi’s other manager, did have that. But Jeffery also put off such an air of being a complete jackass that Micky would’ve avoided him before Jeffery could get around to posturing. There wasn’t any reason in particular Micky thought so—he just struck Micky as one of the million smarmy managing types he’d spent his life avoiding as someone who’d navigated show business. Those sorts weren’t usually that hidden, in particular when they were rolling around towns filled with trained actors who knew how to fake emotions far better than narcissistic managers ever could. Possibly even _psychopathic_ managers—Micky figured you had to be, to value money over people. But while he had Psych books lining his shelves at home alongside Chemistry and Mechanics, he hadn’t gotten past it as a Gen Ed before he’d dropped out of college. So it wasn’t like anyone was lining up for his diagnoses.

What he could offer was that Jeffery’s attitude was one he’d seen a million times before. You couldn’t flip for heads and tails without one of those kinds of managers slithering up to see just how many more coins you had in your pockets. Maybe that was cruel, for such a snap judgment, but Micky’s gut feeling on people was right often enough that he didn’t feel bad for thinking it.

Regardless, the halfway conversation he’d had was still better than the rest of _The Monkees_. He’d been the one to say Jimi should open for them at all, which meant that he’d gone around like a kid trying to get neighbors to sign up for magazine subscriptions. He’d talked to every single person he could to get them on board with it.

But even that wasn’t much of anything when it came to Jimi’s side: He wasn’t twisting any arms convincing Chas or Jeffery on it, anyway. The fact of the matter was that opening for _The Monkees _was a good gig for anyone who could get it. And when it came to Jimi it seemed even better than for some others. Lynne Randell was a big name in Australia with or without their help, and frankly her opening for them probably did less for her American recognition than the fact that she and Davy had gone on a handful of manufactured dates that were seen in magazines by teenage girls the world over.

Jimi, outside of his splash in Monterey and some little New York showings, hadn’t had a reputation to speak of. And, well, Micky very much doubted Jimi would make any headway dating Davy. (Although Micky was willing to throw himself on that sword, personally, if it meant he could listen to Jimi play all the time. And if Jimi fucked the way he pantomimed with his guitar.) It meant that Chas and Jeffery had been very easy to convince.

All this was to say that most of _The Monkees_ were introduced to Jimi’s managers by hearing them screaming at each other as they were all getting ready to leave for the show. They might’ve been inclined to listen in on it, too were they not several rooms over. As it stood, most of what they were able to understand were the curse words. Short, punctuated, those were the sorts of words that weren’t muffled by walls.

The first entire sentence that was intelligible was Jeffery screeching, _“I’ll fucking kill you!”_

Micky rolled his head back in such dramatic exasperation it nearly keeled him over. “You shoulda let me sleep in, Mike.” They were all sitting together, waiting for their own handlers to wrangle them down to the car, and this was maybe the first time he wanted it to happen faster.

“You’d be awake anyhow,” Mike dismissed.

Micky tipped his head and fluttered his eyes a bit, mulling that over. Mike was right; they probably would have woken him up about an hour ago, regardless. And he’d rather get woken up to see Mike walking around naked than he would to listen to two guys screaming at each other. So he accepted that and asked, “You get a lot of people saying they’ll kill you?”

“I’ve got my share of admirers,” Mike replied.

Micky smiled. In part for the joke and in part because Mike said the word ‘admirers’ a little funny, like he didn’t quite know how many ‘er’s were needed at the end of it. It was something he sometimes did on purpose for effect and sometimes an accident. Micky rarely knew which was which, and that was probably the point of it. Mike was insecure about his intelligence, but was ironically smart enough to hide his insecurities well enough it was hard to prove them. Something about that made Micky’s heart flutter a little.

“What about you?” Mike continued.

Micky pulled himself from his affection. “Um. I don’t think so. Maybe. The worst anyone’s said to my face was the One-Nighters, y’know, calling me boring when they kicked me out. Or ugly, I guess. Even the magazines rip on me for that. But I don’t think any of the teen mags’ve put a hit out on me yet…. My grandma told me she got a letter from a girl that wanted to eat my fingernail clippings, that’s something.”

“Christ, you’re an odd one,” Davy cut in. He moved to sit gingerly next to Micky, careful not to mess up the outfit he’d painstakingly put on. As though they wouldn’t be doing costume changes during the show that would be too rushed to look pressed and tidy.

“_I’m_ odd? _Me_? I didn’t send her the fingernails!”

“That’s because you chew them, yourself,” Davy said. The other grabbed up one of Micky’s hands and held it up to show off his gnawed nails. “Odd you’ve got your grandmother heading your fan club. They must be sending her all kinds of dirty pictures.”

“Oh, sure. If they’re cute girls she sends ‘em on to me.”

“If they’re cute boys?” Peter asked, joking, but with sincerity.

“She keeps them as a finder’s fee,” Micky answered. He and Davy both looked at each other and fell into a fit of the giggles. It was one of those times that Peter and Mike shared a look, themselves, a little amused but nowhere near the level Micky and Davy had set themselves to.

“Kids,” Peter said to Mike, shaking his head a bit.

Mike laughed.

A loud crash silenced all of them.

A surprised beat, then Davy shouted, “For fuck’s sake! Yelling’s one thing, breaking things’s another! If anyone tears this place apart it ought to be us!” He separated from Micky to stomp out of the room.

The next thing they heard was Davy.

Davy, who had made a living on making his voice carry across a thousand people without using a microphone, had no problem talking loud enough for The Monkees to hear him. What he yelled was simultaneously rude and polite: “I’m gonna kill both of ya! You’ll be the warm up, then I’ll get the big one, yeah? But before that, I’m gonna get’ya a broom and you’re gonna clean up whatever it is you broke, because that’s not the kind of mess housekeeping’s paid for! Once you’re done, I’m gonna get you both in the tub and do you both in there, so they don’t have to clean my mess, either! Fucking shameful!”

Warmth spread through Micky’s chest as he listened.

“I’m going to marry him,” he decided.

“Not if I ask him first,” Peter threw in.

Once Davy came back, they both fell at his feet, swooning and declaring their love. Davy looked at them both like he was an alien and this was his first interaction with the human race.

Then he looked to Mike.

Mike, not understanding the appeal, just shrugged his shoulders.

+++

The show went exactly as it had done since Jimi and the _Experience_ had joined the tour. The crowd hissed and screamed and booed and bawled for Davy to come out on stage. Even though Jimi had told them all that New York was _his_ place, with _his_ audience, the fact of it was that none of them were surprised, anyway. Jimi was hurt, and he was more hurt by it happening in the state he considered home; it was a different kind of wound to have people from your home turn against you. Even if the white, teenage crowd had never been Jimi’s crowd to begin with. But even Jimi, with all the new hurt that came along with New York, wasn’t surprised.

That also meant that when Jimi explained what Chas and Jeffery were fighting about, they also weren’t surprised: As it so happened, Chas had called Dick Clark about getting Jimi pulled from the show. It just also so happened that while Jimi’s contract was signed with Chas, Chas had gotten the money he needed to start being a manager from Jeffery, which meant that Jeffery didn’t want to terminate the contract early.

Maybe it was the fact they were smoking hash in Peter’s room, or maybe it was just Jimi’s shy, almost embarrassed way of talking about it. Either way, it took a while to understand that Jimi was telling them all this not to inform them, but to ask for their blessing. They all gave it to him eagerly, most lifting a beer or a glass of whiskey to toast to going on to bigger and better things. Micky was the only one who abstained and held up a bottle of Coke instead; not for sobriety's sake, but because he desperately wanted to smoke and had the wherewithal to figure that combining the two would either lead to him throwing up or blacking out, and neither up nor out were directions he wanted to go that night.

That was all they talked about it.

Eventually it shifted to playing music, as getting high with musicians often did. The Experience and The Monkees all played and sang songs, except for Micky: Peter had the good hash, the stuff that hit him deep, and he laid down on the ground and cried about how beautiful everyone sounded and how soft the carpet felt on his face. He’d never figure out why it didn’t hit everyone else the way it did him, but then he was never in the frame of mind to think on it. The only times he remembered to question it was in the lull, right as the high was building in his veins.

It was a good time, singing and laughing and carrying on for quite some time. Davy eventually hauled Micky, who was still crying face-down on the floor an hour or more on, up to sit. “I’m taking you home before you drown yourself, mate,” he said.

Micky didn’t understand that one bit. He sniffled, told Davy he looked beautiful, and burst into fresh tears. Davy sighed and just about dragged him back to his own room. They listened to the laughing and the happy chatter of the rest of the groups fade behind them as they went down the hall; the way the laughter went soft played on Micky’s heart strings, and that too made him cry. He also cried over how nice it was for Davy to take off his shoes and tuck him in. Davy rolled his eyes and insulted every bit of it, but he still took off his own shoes and laid down next to him so they could both fall asleep, together.

That time when Micky woke it wasn’t to a slap, but to a pinch, though the cheek that got it was the same.

“Pretty cheeky, Davy,” he muttered into his pillow.

“’Davy’?” Mike’s voice came from above him, amused.

Micky swung his head around to do as much of a double-take as he could, face-down in his mattress. That other side of the bed was empty, and he looked up at Mike with sleep-squinted eyes. “I swear he was here last night. Maybe I lost him.” He checked under his pillow for show, being sure to look in the gap between the mattress and the headboard. He often lost change or keys down that crack. Remembering himself, then, he returned to Mike to say, “You’ve just got a fixation, huh? Can’t help yourself?”

“No, I’m definitely helping myself.”

Micky huffed a laugh and scooted over so Mike could join him in bed, shimmying instead of rolling over only to leave himself easily accessible. “You can fuck me if you want, but I’m going back to sleep,” he informed. That seemed to be what Mike was angling for. “So don’t get too rough with me.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” Mike said, crawling into bed, sitting with legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded, back up against the headboard.

“Mm, it’s not? What’re you after?”

Mike didn’t answer that right away. It took long enough that Micky lifted his head again to look. “Company,” he said eventually.

“That sounds like something I gotta be awake for.”

Mike shook his head. “I’ve had plenty of conversations with you when you were asleep,” he said.

“The kinds of conversations I’d _want_ to be awake for?”

“Maybe.”

“And the kinds you wouldn’t have if I was?”

“You got it.”

“Figures,” Micky said, unbothered. It was one of those things he assumed to be half earnest, deep truth and half riffing, anyway. He went with the ‘riffing’ half so he wouldn’t get too tempted to figure it out. “At least tell me if I say anything funny.”

“You’re never funny, Mick.”

Micky flailed a hand out to swat Mike without looking. He was about to fall asleep when he rolled over and pressed his face against Mike’s hip instead. “You oughta cool it, hanging around with me.”

“Why’s that?” Mike asked.

He started petting Micky’s hair. Micky furrowed his brow at the touch. It felt strange, and he opened his eyes to try and figure out why. It was still hard to see from the angle he was at, but he could tell Mike was doing it as though it were a gag; stiff-fingered and awkward, like how Mike might give a consoling pat as a laugh if they were recording their show. “Mm, that’s nice,” he encouraged anyway, and almost immediately the strokes got a little more legitimate, soft and fluid. He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Because,” he said, right near Mike’s hip bone. “Peter came to talk to me, and he figures we’re messing around. I told him it was me dogging you, but—”

“I don’t give a shit what Peter knows.”

“You made a real big deal out of sneaking for someone who doesn’t care.”

“Well, your idea of discretion’s bouncing on my lap in front of six men. If I wasn’t making you cool it, you’d be sucking me off onstage.”

“Oh, so it’s all me, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Micky rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll try to behave. But for the record, if we’re in a room full of naked men, I should be allowed to bounce wherever I want.”

“Never go to a sauna.”

Micky made a noise of annoyed amusement right at the back of his throat. He was quiet for a while and considering sleep again. He’d talked enough by then that he’d woken up, and he often liked to lay himself bare in the vulnerable hours—the early mornings, the late nights. So he said, “I’m glad you don’t want to stop.”

“Why’s that?”

He could usually take Mike keeping the conversation on him. Not one-sided, exactly; it was never that Mike didn’t contribute to a discussion. But Mike knew exactly how much he wanted to put into it, and could never be dragged into revealing more than what he’d set out to.

It wasn’t often that this stung, but somehow he’d expected some sort of commiseration instead.

Micky frowned and withdrew from Mike, sitting up in bed. “Like you,” he said, pointed, “I like the company. I like having someone familiar with me. I—” He could feel his tongue curl to finish the thought. _Love you_. He carefully shut his mouth and laid his tongue flat again. He and Mike had said the words before. The way friends did—the way boys did. Mike would say it plainly even when talking to men. Micky wasn’t so bold. He’d often said it loud and silly, over-the-top, just in case it was taken the wrong way. He had no desire to be over-the-top with the words anymore, and he felt too mixed up to know which way was the wrong way. He let the words ping-pong around in his head until they lost their momentum enough for him to go with another thought. “I get lonely after the shows. Y’know… all those people cheering. For an hour everyone loves you. Then you get back to the hotel and it’s empty. Nobody.”

“You’re never alone,” Mike said. “You run around all day long. Most the management hates it.” Ric Klein was a ‘manager’ who didn't, but he didn’t much count even without the fact that he and Micky were close friends. He was their age and enjoyed their antics. He wasn’t a forty-year-old businessman with two kids and a mortgage.

“I know, they’ve told me.”

Mike had enough clout that he could get people fired by punching holes in walls.

Micky had enough clout that he could act a fool, running around talking to everybody, and only be gently scolded. And he figured Mike’s clout helped his out, anyway; managers were harder pressed to try and keep someone like him under their thumb when they had someone like Mike running loose.

Mike stayed silent, expectant.

Micky would never out-silence someone like Mike, so he said, “It’s nice to have more than that.”

“Sex.”

“Sure. Yes, but. I don’t know. I can pick up a girl pretty easy. And I gotta be honest, some of them are pretty freaky. I coulda gotten them to fuck me up the ass sooner than you did.”

That got a laugh from Mike.

Micky had expected it, but he still felt something that had been coiled tight in him release. He continued, “Intimacy, with someone familiar. It’s nice not feeling like I gotta be ‘on’ to be liked. Don’t you feel that way?”

“I feel part of that way,” Mike replied.

Micky frowned and drew himself up a little, knees to chest. Then he slid them back down, hyperaware of how much he telegraphed. “Which part?”

“I like having a place to come home to. I like someone being there, and I like making love.”

Micky fought not to look up at that, because if he did look up it would’ve been head-whipping, eyes bugging. He knew—or at least suspected--that Mike didn’t mean ‘going home and making love’ quite the way he would have, himself. There was a reason he enjoyed Mike’s songwriting so much. Mike was poetic. He could make dumping someone on the side of the road sound romantic, like some heart-rending breakup instead of just cruelty. Sex in hotels while the rest of the world seemed lonely and quiet wasn’t so hard to make romantic even incidentally.

“But?”

“It’s not often I’m lonely in a hotel room, with or without you. You know how many phone bills I’ve racked up, calling friends and family on the road. But I’ve never had a problem with my own company, Micky. If I had, I’d have changed myself a long time ago. I’m not spending twenty-four-seven with someone I hate even if he’s me. The place I’m lonesome is on stage when all those folks are cheering for us. That’s when you keep me from feeling lonely.”

“Baloney,” Micky said. He straddled Mike to corner him against the headboard. He poked Mike firmly in the chest and stared at Mike through squinted lids.

“Salami,” Mike countered, smiling at him and slipping his hands into Micky’s back pockets, which was not at all the way crooks responded to being called liars in old detective movies.

Micky poked Mike in the chest once more. “_I’m_ not the one who came into _your_ bed looking for company after the show,” he said, smugly.

“Babe, are you taking your hard-hitting journalism cues from _Tiger Beat_?”

Mike squeezed his ass firmly, and Micky snickered. He leaned forward and caught Mike’s mouth with his own, still laughing. “No, I learned from Dick Tracy. I was a junior detective, you know.”

Mike gave him a look that gave the stomach-jumping sensation he got when going up in an elevator, or when his car crested a tall hill. The momentary, instinctive feeling of being able to fly, before gravity caught up with him.

“The only things you’re detecting are things I told you from my own two lips.” Those same lips pressed against Micky’s throat. But Mike continued a moment later, once he’d had his fun. “I’m not here because I’m lonesome. Do you only want company when you’re lonely?”

Micky didn’t answer. It wasn’t being cagey as much as it was he’d never thought about his motivations. But he’d assumed loneliness, so maybe he had his answer even in silence.

“Well,” Mike continued, “I ain’t here because I’m lonely. I’m plenty happy with my own company, in my own bed in my own room. But I’m happier with yours; I never said otherwise.”

Micky smiled wide. “I’m changing my answer. Yours is better, let’s both go with that.”

“Too late now. You only like spending time with me because it beats sittin’ alone in a puddle in the street.”

“Shut the hell up,” Micky said, still grinning nice and wide as he kissed Mike again.

And again, and again.


	15. July 16-17: New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's some BDSM/aggressive sex in this chapter. There's also minor issue of consent pertaining to the level of aggression, though the sex is enthusiastically consensual. It's also pretty integral to the plot, however, and as a whole the chapter is plot-heavy so I'd recommend reading it if you are able to.

Jimi quit with a bang, smashing his guitar onstage in front of a stunned audience. He shouted all kinds of colorful language with equally colorful hand signals, but when he walked off the stage he was smiling. “Have to make it look good, right?” he asked rhetorically as he walked past _The Monkees._

Micky nodded his head eagerly, eyes wide. He was a fan of wanton destruction, and was an even bigger fan of someone doing it in front of an audience; he only had the guts to break things in complete privacy. Davy could appreciate the showmanship of the exit, and Peter the dismissal of material goods. Only Mike seemed at all reserved by it, his eyes occasionally ticking to the dead guitar hanging from Jimi’s hand as he walked by them. It struck him a little different, when instruments were destroyed purposelessly instead of as part of an act; when it seemed something more like vandalism than underscoring the music.

They chatted only a moment before Jimi waved to them and wished them well on the show. Chas and Jeffery hadn’t said word one about this plan, but Jimi himself had told them how the meeting had gone with Dick Clark: They wanted him to leave explosively. That wasn’t so hard, maybe; he was probably glad for the excuse. But in this case they had a reason: They were making up a protest from the Daughters of the American Revolution. Jimi’s music was starting to gain traction in his own circles, and it wouldn’t look good for anyone for him to hop off a headlining act for no visible reason. Boos were a –_the--reason_, but Jimi wasn’t the one getting written about in the newspapers. No one except the people who were in attendance would see that as a reason. But a protest they could make public. A protest from a particular kind of group would make Jimi look good to his crowd, while making The Monkees save face with their own.

So it was said, anyway. Micky didn’t really think the general public would care one way or another, but no matter what Davy said, he knew it was at least partially his fault to begin with. He’d given his managerial opinion enough for one tour. He’d just smiled and nodded when Jimi had told him about it.

After the show, Micky picked up a fragment of Jimi’s guitar from the stage. He waved to the crowd with his free hand, but was still ogling the piece of wood as he stepped offstage.

“Think you’re gonna have trouble putting that puzzle together,” Mike’s voice came from behind him.

Micky glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “When Jimi’s a bigger name than us, I’m gonna sell this and retire,” he said pleasantly.

“You’ll never retire. You need too much validation.” Micky lifted an eyebrow and Mike disclaimed, “Only joking.”

Micky had known it from the start, but Mike was lousy at those roast-like jokes. They held the exact same criticism, with no exaggeration, that he’d give in earnest some other time. Micky didn’t press the issue because the fact of the matter was Mike was right even in earnest. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll make it into a necklace. You think?” He held the piece of guitar up in front of his throat for show.

“Try an earring.”

Micky smiled. He pocketed the little piece of wood, colorful from Jimi’s own hand-painting. It was an even bigger pity that it was destroyed because of it. Two masterpieces destroyed at once. “You know, Coco pierced her own ears. With a sewing needle and a potato. Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Let me do it for you. You’ll die of sepsis if you do it yourself.”

“You don’t trust me at all, do you?” Micky asked, feigning hurt.

“I trust you to be impulsive, reckless, and generally ridiculous.”

Micky stared at Mike a moment. “Well, all right then,” he said with a firm nod. “As long as you trust me.”

They smiled at each other. Micky’s heart skipped enough beats to make him feel dizzy. Then they parted ways.

+++

They all went and stayed in Jimi’s room that night, knowing they wouldn’t be seeing him again anytime soon. Possibly not ever; the scene was fickle that way, fast and fleeting, and it was important to live in the moment. Maybe it always had been, but even though Micky had often been looking for the next adventure, going hunting, climbing, fishing, flying, it had never felt as topsy-turvy fast-slow and discombobulating as it did on tour. The drugs were part of that to be sure. Probably even a big part of it. But the rest of it was just changing time zones, changing sleep cycles, picking up as many interviews as possible, talking to as many people as you could fit in the day. More was expected but less was certain when you were on the road that way.

He’d hated touring as a kid. As an adult…. He still hated it. But that night was a good one, all the same. He borrowed one of Mike’s acoustics and they played until they could see the sun coming back around.

“I thought you didn’t play guitar,” Jimi commented between one of their sets.

“I don’t play guitar like _you_,” Micky corrected, “I’ve been playing guitar like _me_ since I was eight.”

Jimi paused. “But you didn’t play the drums?”

“Not before the show.”

Jimi squinted at Davy. “But you did?” he asked, pointing at him.

“I do all right,” Davy agreed. His tone wasn’t sharp, but was maybe getting set to be defensive.

“Wild,” Jimi said, “You guys did this a real weird kind of a way.”

“Drummer was on a volunteer basis—Micky got volunteered,” Davy explained.

Micky pulled a face. “Davy heard chicks never go for drummers. He needs all the help he can get.”

“So he decided to play maracas instead,” Mike added, “They’re the sexiest instrument.”

Micky giggled, in part because it struck him actually funny, and in part because he was getting drunk off the lack of sleep. “When’d you learn to play?” he asked, redirecting to Jimi before Davy could get too offended.

“Fourteen or fifteen.”

“Jeez. And Mike didn’t start until college,” Micky grumped, “And you’re both better than me. I oughta go to bed before I develop a complex.”

“Nothing about you’s complex, Micky,” Davy said. He rapped Micky on the forehead with his knuckles. “The simplest man in Hollywood, you are.”

Micky let out a cry of indignation and slapped Davy away.

“Careful,” Mike said.

“You worried about me or your guitar?”

“Take a guess.”

Micky pulled another face, this time at Mike. “You’re all jerks. I’m running away and joining the circus.”

“You only lasted two years last time,” Mike said.

“And they aren’t taking any more monkeys,” Peter added. Which was probably just a play on their name. If it’d been coming from Davy, it would’ve been a dig at his looks, too.

Micky sighed and went to sit next to Jimi. “What about you? You need a drummer?”

Jimi shook his head. “Sorry, spot’s taken.”

“What about a yes-man? I’m a real good crony.”

Jimi shook his head. He started to play before Micky could drag the bit out any longer. But somehow it didn’t seem insulting. It felt a little like Jimi actually felt bad about saying ‘no’, even in good fun.

It continued that way, music broken up with laughs and talk. One by one they fell asleep with or without saying goodbye to Jimi. By the time they were all awake again he, Chas, and Jeffery would be on the road.

+++

Micky woke on the seventeenth feeling amazingly rested for having only a few hours’ sleep. It was like the last day of school for the year.

_Vacation. _

They rarely got days off. When they were on tour they were usually either practicing, playing, travelling, talking to a reporter, or sleeping. When they were at home they were recording albums or recording the show.

But now they had a few days all to themselves.

That was still filled to the brim, in its way: Ric’s wedding was coming up on this break, and they were all planning to go to Niagara Falls together. They’d bought a private showing, since none of them had ever gone. He knew at least one of those two places would have reporters there to talk to them; Ric had done his damndest to keep the wedding under wraps, but Micky knew their crowd. Niagara Falls was somehow the better bet for privacy despite being a tourist trap. He was pretty sure that security would take it seriously that they’d paid for their own time there.

It felt like someone had been holding his head underwater and finally let him up for air.

It was almost funny. He hadn’t realized he’d even needed any air until that moment.

The first thing he wanted to do was be with Mike. It sounded so nice to have all day with him. To spend hours and hours on end together without feeling the need to rush. No looking at the clocks, no sneaking out of each other’s rooms—though on his end he often forgot to ‘sneak’, anyway.

He couldn’t find Mike, which was disappointing, but Davy grabbed him by the arm and took him to have a drink and find a girl to spend time with. They had a very nice, eventful morning.

It was when he was on his way back to his room from grabbing a snack that Mike grabbed him and pressed him firm against the wall.

“You got anyone in there?” Mike asked, right into his ear.

Micky shivered. Mike was pressing against him so fully that he couldn’t even shake his head. “No,” he said.

Mike, already hard, rocked against his ass. “Got time for company?”

He did have room to nod, so he did.

Mike stepped back to let him go, and followed him into his room.

Micky heard the lock click behind him. It didn’t scare him, he didn’t feel trapped, but it signified something that left goosebumps down his arms and the hair on his neck standing up on end. It was a secret ‘do not disturb’ sign that electrified him even though he’d known Mike’s intent from the start.

He turned around to kiss Mike, and startled.

“You’re high,” Micky realized. Mike’s eyes were dark, anyway. Brown like his were. But the pupils were blown wide. His face had a sheen of sweat, already. Micky wouldn’t have been surprised if it was Peter or even Davy. But Mike was a little straighter-laced than they were. “What is it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Speed?”

“Ritalin.”

He had a feeling Mike wouldn’t have answered if the pills hadn’t made him achingly horny, desperately hard even without any foreplay. Mike was grabbing him without waiting for a response, bringing Micky’s hand to his erection.

Micky touched him obligingly. “Is something wrong?” he asked. The disparity between the question and the action was so great he almost laughed. “I thought you just used it when you were writing.” It was the time and place that shocked him; Mike readily popped pills when they had long hours in the studio, and had done so especially when he was pushing so hard to get them all recognized as artists. But on tour he’d mostly just drank beer and taken a few hits off a spliff.

“Save it, will you? It gets me so God damned concupiscent I can’t see straight.”

Micky didn’t recognize the word. He pulled a trick his English tutor had taught him in his _Circus Boy_ days and looked for clues. Between the fact he the closest word he could think of was ‘concubine’ and that Mike’s cock was pressing hot against his hand, he could work it out. He rubbed Mike through his jeans. “Is it gonna help, if you blow off some steam?”

“Yes,” Mike said, pressing against him and kissing his throat.

The tone was already annoyed. Micky figured Mike was guessing he wanted to be a jerk and tease him, really rile him up.

He wasn’t wrong.

“You need me, huh?” Micky asked, grin in his voice.

Mike didn’t answer that. Instead his hands went to Micky’s belt. He’d gotten it free of the buckle when Micky slapped his hands back.

“Aw, c’mon, Mike. I’m helping you out. The least you could do is say you need me.”

They stared at each other. Mike’s look was sour. Micky’s was delighted.

“I need you, Mick,” Mike said. It was a little petulant, but it was sincere, not sarcastic in the slightest. “Now strip.”

Micky leaned forward to kiss Mike firm and eager. He returned his touch to the front of Mike’s pants, feeling him through the denim. “Yeah. You’re desperate, aren’t you? I’m not. That’s a switch, man….I hooked up with a girl this morning. I don’t really need this.” He was lying: now that Mike was here for him, so eager, so red-faced and coiled with arousal, he needed it, too. He was desperate, too. But it seemed so exciting to get in trouble, and he knew that whatever steam Mike had to let off would be far more satisfying with frustration.

“Are you saying ‘no’?” Mike asked.

“No,” Micky said. It seemed clear enough to him that he meant he _wasn’t_ saying no. But Mike was a fan of ambiguous answers and annoying twists of the tongue. Mike’s hips had been rocking up to his touch, but he forced himself still then. Just in case. Micky couldn’t help but smile as he continued, “I’m saying ‘make me’.”

“Make you.”

It wasn’t said like a question, but it was one at its core. Micky shrugged. “Unless you don’t think you could.”

Micky was a fan of play-fighting. Scuffles that had him and Davy rolling on the floor, choking each other out, wrestling and throwing each other end-over-end. Mike wasn’t like that. He’d never gotten in on that kind of fun—when Mike fought it was for real, for keeps. Maybe Micky should’ve thought of that when he and Mike started fighting against each other. Mike grabbed him rough, threw him around with purpose that made his teeth clack and head ache, instead of the way he and Davy did, like actors who were catching as much air as they were skin.

But maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, since he would’ve thrown the match even if he didn’t think Mike could win fair and square. He caught on fast, anyway, when he realized Mike wasn’t pulling punches. Not literally; they didn’t punch each other, just grabbed, wrestled, gripped and tore and scratched but never actually hit. They were both red-faced and winded by the time Mike got him half-off the bed, face down in the carpet. Mike was the only one with leverage, then, seated on his legs, hands pressing on the small of his back to keep him down.

“Uncle?” Mike asked.

Micky could tell Mike was trying to keep the breathlessness out of his voice. That invigorated him a little, and he tried to rock back, so he could get back up on the bed. Or wiggle out from under Mike’s legs, or… But all it did was push his ass back against Mike’s erection. His second wind ended as soon as it started, and he nodded, gasping, against the carpet.

“Say it.”

“Uncle, uncle.”

“Lift your hips up.”

The weight of Mike’s body eased from him, and Micky pressed his hands into the carpet and his knees into the mattress to lift himself up, arcing his body like he might flip up to a handstand. “Can I get back on the bed?” He wasn’t entirely weak, but the strength he had was the wiry kind, the sort of person who ran and swam, not the sort that held their body weight or did handstands. It didn’t really hurt yet, in particular since he was on the bed from the hips down. But it wasn’t comfortable, either, and he wasn’t used to the way the blood was going to his face, making the skin taut and his voice nasally. Peter and Davy were the ones who spent time on the yoga that built muscles that way, and it was the first time he was a little jealous.

“The part I want’s here, already.” Mike grabbed the waist of Micky’s pants and slid them down, just a little, just enough. He adjusted Micky’s legs a little, so when he settled it’d be more like he was kneeling to pray than laying flat. “You can relax now,” he said, and Micky listened, going back to his forearms and face against the carpet.

Micky wasn’t often ashamed having sex. All of the guys had caught him fucking a girl on at least one occasion, and Mike had done far more than that. But there was something about having only his ass bare to Mike that would’ve made his face red even without all the blood filling his cheeks. Face down this way, not able to see anything. It was the first time in a long while that he’d felt so embarrassed. God if it wasn’t even more arousing than it was embarrassing. His cock throbbed, pressed between his legs and his stomach. He’d always gotten a thrill of Mike taking charge. It wasn’t so often that Mike got forceful with him, because he respected Mike so much that he listened from the jump. He suddenly wanted to say ‘no’ more often, just so Mike could show him why he had so rarely said it before.

Eager anxiety filled his lungs as he listened to Mike. He could hear the rustling of his clothes and the bedsheets as he moved. The wooden scrape as he pulled open the nightstand drawer. Mike’s zipper sounded loud as it was dragged down.

The sound of Mike getting the lube hadn’t been distinguishable beyond his assumption as the drawer opened, but when Mike gripped his hips he could feel the slickness still on his fingertips.

The first thrust in wasn’t slow but was easy.

It was a better angle for this than it had been the first time. Micky felt spread wider, and though Mike had pressed in him fully before, it still made it seem all the deeper this time around. Micky groaned and shifted his hips a little, side to side, doing what he could to get friction against his cock.

Every thrust that followed was quick and powerful.

It started nice. Even not being able to touch himself-- even not having Mike jerk him off-- Micky came twice, whimpering and boneless. Even after that felt nice, despite the strange angle, despite the rugburn on his arms and face.

But it lasted so long. That was the thing, with Ritalin. Speed. Orgasmic dysfunction. Micky hadn’t experienced that either first or secondhand. He’d gotten drunk enough he’d felt numb, nothing even when coming, but he knew that Mike was feeling it. He could tell where Mike was at. Right at the edge, unable to cross over. He knew from the way Mike’s frustrated noises were mounting, the grip on his hips was getting tighter and the movements shorter, sharper, unfocused and losing rhythm.

“Mike,” Micky said. There wasn’t a response. He paused and asked, “Babe, are you close? I want to feel you.” It seemed a nicer way to ask than if they were almost done.

Heavy breathing. A noise of frustration. Mike didn’t talk for a moment and when he did he sounded…. ‘Near tears’ was the closest thing Micky could think of, though Mike wasn’t prone to crying. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay. We’ll get there. But you gotta stop a second now.”

He knew Mike was annoyed at the request, but he wasn’t surprised or grateful when Mike followed it. “What’s wrong?” there was a bite to the words, but the question wasn’t compulsory. 

“I’m not a girl, y’know? It’s getting kind of dry, dig?” He knew Mike must’ve felt the lube running out, too. It would’ve been impossible for him not to. Mike was large for good and for bad, and there was no way he wouldn’t have known how hard it was getting to continue. His priorities were just different.

Mike withdrew from him, kissing the small of his back once they were separated. Micky smiled at the feeling of the hot, full lips against his skin. He waited until Mike moved, then pulled himself forward onto the floor. He rolled over and looked up at a spinning ceiling as the blood that had pooled in his head recirculated. Something about moving made him realize he was burning up. He kicked off his pants and was just working his shirt off when Mike joined him on the floor.

His breath caught when he saw how Mike was looking at him, all dark eyes and hunger. The look had thrilled him the first time he’d seen it that night, and it thrilled him again then. He smiled back, wide and toothy.

“Are we good?” Mike asked.

“We’re good.” Micky nodded his head, beaming. “I was just getting dizzy. If you wanna fuck someone upside down, you gotta go with Peter.” His hip was starting to hurt, either from being in one, weird position for so long or from getting out of it, but he wouldn’t admit to that part. That was something Mike might actually make them stop for: Despite making a point not to complain about it, his leg was one of the only reasons that Mike would call for breaks when he was in charge of the recording studio. It was never overt, just a ‘ten-minute breather’ or ‘we should stretch our legs’, but it happened in a way that he knew it was for his benefit, even if Mike never said so explicitly.

He shivered when Mike pressed back into him. The lube was cold and his nerves were overwrought.

“You need it slow?”

Micky shook his head. “Whatever’ll get you there.”

“Good. I don’t think I could take it.”

If it had been regular frustration, that would have made Micky want to go slow, really drag it out. As it stood he pushed Mike’s hair out of his sweat-sheened face and kissed him. And they started again.

Being able to move was nicer. Being able kiss and touch Mike. To be able to contribute more than just moans and tightened muscles. The aggression built again, two-sided instead of one. Round two of their fight started, and soon they were both grabbing, biting, hair pulling, nails scratching despite being gnawed short. And finally, finally Mike got a good angle and said a firm, “Enough. Hold still.”

Micky wanted to hold still, really. He even held his breath even though he was so exerted he needed the air, making his lungs burn. But Mike was pressing his bad leg up high against his chest. His muscles quivered and his leg moved, fractionally--

Mike wheeled back and struck him hard across the face. His brain swum, his ears rung. For a moment he thought he was going to throw up, but the feeling tumbled away. It took a long second for him to realize Mike’s hand hadn’t left his cheek, and a few more to realize that Mike was staring at him wide-eyed. It took no time at all to realize how quickly everything could fall apart.

“I’m sorry,” Micky said, voice fast. He grabbed Mike, keeping him in place. “Fuck me, please_, please_, Mike.”

Mike blinked away his frozen expression. His hand went to Micky’s throat as though to choke him. “Don’t move.” His voice shook just a little. So did his fingertips. The touch was gentle, a mental hold rather than a physical one.

“Yes, sir,” Micky agreed. But he did `move, just a bit, to force his leg back up where it had been.

Mike started again. They didn’t say anything else.

When he finished, Micky moaned with him.

Eventually they made their way into the bed with wobbly legs.

“Do you want to cuddle?” Mike asked.

Micky bit his lip at the softness of the question. It was always a little funny, a little charming to hear things like that from Mike. Mike was open enough with his feelings that maybe it shouldn’t strike him that way, but he always expected a John Wayne type of persona, tough and untouchable. “Not yet. But maybe later—fifteen, twenty minutes?”

Mike’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “I’m ordering room service. Do you want anything?”

“I dunno, what’re you getting?”

“Just some whiskey.”

“Mm.” Micky paused. “Maybe a burger. And a Coke.”

“All right.”

Mike lifted the phone, but didn’t dial room service before Micky asked, “Does this make me a whore? I think I’m worth a full meal. Get fries, or chips or whatever, too.”

Mike held the receiver down once Micky got started. “Still pretty cheap, Mick. Sure you don’t want a milkshake?”

“Oh, no, no, if I lose this figure you’ll never come see me again.”

“Yeah. Flat every way I turn you, that’s what I’m after.”

“Hey! I’m not so flat once you get me going.”

Mike hummed but didn’t argue that point. “That’s your order? I can call now?”

“Yeah.”

Mike lifted his finger.

“Wait!”

Mike sighed and pressed his finger back down. “Yeah?”

“No, that’s all.” Micky beamed, teeth showing.

Mike carefully lifted his finger again, and he and Micky stared at each other while he turned the dial to get room service, each daring Micky to get going again. But he didn’t, and Mike ordered in peace.

It was with great reluctance, but Mike cleaned himself up and got dressed enough to go out to the hallway. Room service would often come straight into the room for optimal service, and Micky didn’t seem interested in getting dressed, never mind putting himself together enough to make them pass for decent.

Micky shoveled his meal into his mouth. He chattered idly while he ate, and while Mike’s answers were monosyllable and noncommittal, he didn’t really need anything better. It was only once he’d finished that he really turned to look at Mike and the air in the room suddenly went cold.

“Mike?” Micky asked carefully. Mike’s eyes were shiny-bright. Though he’d made a dent in his whiskey, but it wasn’t the glassiness of alcohol. And while he was often moody, he rarely looked the way he did then. He was more prone to anger than sadness—Micky couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Mike look like he might cry. “You all right?”

Mike blinked and looked at him. “I just got stuck in my head.”

“Dangerous place,” Micky said, his voice with a calculated lilt. The edge of levity and seriousness. “You need me to help pull you out?”

Mike shook his head. “I’d like to ask you something.”

Micky hesitated. They, or maybe the room itself, felt filled to the brim with vulnerability. Anything more would be overflowing. But he was always an open book, and this seemed a poor time to make an exception. He nodded his head. “Shoot.”

“Did I hurt you?”

Micky furrowed his brow and looked Mike over, considering him. “You usually choose your words more carefully than that,” he said, his face relaxing. He gave Mike a soft smile.

“It’s redundant,” Mike acknowledged. From anyone else it would’ve probably been a question. From Mike it was much more self-critical.

Micky hummed and nodded. “Unless you’re asking so I’ll…” the way it finished in his head was _lie_. But that was a severe kind of word, and Mike would never cop to wanting it.

“You don’t need to mollify me.”

Micky smiled again, though no wider than before. He grabbed a tissue to wipe his greasy fingers clean, then he reached out. He guided Mike’s hand up to his cheek, matching it to the mark he knew would be there. The immediate ache had subsided, but his skin grew hot again under Mike’s hand. He knew the deeper pain would set in tomorrow. “You hurt me,” he confirmed. He turned his head and kissed Mike’s wrist. “And I loved it. I wanted it.”

Mike nodded. “All right,” he said. He withdrew, but his gaze lingered.

Micky watched Mike, watching him; he looked at Mike’s face while Mike took stock of the rugburn on his knees and arms, the hickeys, the fingerprint bruises, the raked skin. It dawned on Micky in a strange way, an out-of-body kind of experience where the realization came from beyond himself, that Mike hadn’t been asking to cuddle only for _his_ benefit. He shifted to curl up against Mike, snuggling into his side.

After setting the bottle of whiskey aside, Mike sank into him in turn. His arms wrapped around Micky’s waist and squeezed tight. That hurt a little, too, really, but the irony made Micky smile and he didn’t try to get Mike to loosen his grip. He didn’t say anything to coax Mike to speak, but only because he had the hunch he’d get further with it in silence.

“I haven’t slept with too many women before,” Mike said eventually.

“I haven’t slept with ‘too many’, either. There’s no such thing!” Micky returned pleasantly. A joke beat saying he knew that Mike wasn’t exactly the most experienced guy out there. Of course before they’d started this it had been an educated guess that Mike hadn’t been with a man before, but he knew outright the women Mike had been with. They’d all talked about their exploits, though Mike held his cards closer to his chest than Micky did.

Mike didn’t tell him to knock off the jokes, but neither did he encourage it with a laugh.

“I can tell you I’ve never hit any of them in the middle of sex. And I never would, without adequate discussion.”

“We discussed it adequately,” Micky said. “I enjoyed myself.”

“You had no choice but to enjoy yourself.”

Micky snickered. Mike was still stony, and Micky realized he wasn’t bragging. He stopped laughing. “What do you mean?”

“What’s the alternative?”

“…Not enjoy myself?”

Mike sighed at that one, though Micky hadn’t exactly been a joke so much as not getting the point. Whatever the point had been, Mike gave up on trying to explain it. Instead he said, “I think I’d feel differently, if I’d been intending to do it from the outset.”

That point Micky got. “It’s okay if you lose control sometimes, Mike.”

Again Mike didn’t answer him, which was a rather frustrating trend for the conversation. Instead Mike withdrew from him. They looked at each other for a while in silence before Mike said, “It’s starting to bruise.”

“Aw, well. I’m gonna say I got it bein’ lewd to a big-handed barfly.”

“Big-handed?”

“For a girl, you are.”

Mike kissed him.

“Are you gonna tell me what was bothering you?” Micky asked. He lifted his eyebrows, tipped his head a bit and clarified, “Before, I mean. The first thing, before we tried to fix that and gave you the second thing.”

“Existential dread.”

That didn’t seem a thing Ritalin would help with, but Micky hadn’t ever taken Ritalin. “Gonna tell me what was bothering you in a way I understand?”

Mike smiled a little. He considered it a moment, actively debating. Then he nodded. “I’m scared of succeeding. But I’m scared of failing, too. If we succeed now, it’s on Kirshner’s back. We were built to succeed on a tried-and-true musical archetype. But if we fail it’ll be because jackass Nesmith turned his nose up at a winning hand.”

“You’re giving yourself too much credit. And not enough. I told you, man—I had a band before. A couple. And it didn’t last. Everything’s got to come together. You’re smart.” Micky kissed him. “Talented.” He kissed him again. “A _fantastic_ writer. A real poet.” Again. “A beautiful country voice.” Again. “You’re a success whether _The Monkees_ are or not. If you go solo in twenty years, I’ll be in the front row with my ‘Mike Nesmith’ t-shirt. There’re a lot of ways I want to be like Michael Nesmith. But I’m too Micky Dolenz for that. So I think—” the words were coming before he could filter them, “I think I’ll stick to loving you instead.” Surprised at himself, his eyes went round. Then he relaxed. “I love you.”

Maybe it wasn’t the time for that, existential dread or not.

There wasn’t a question about how he meant it.

Mike kissed him deeply and rolled him over onto his back, making out with him in a way that said they’d be having slow, gentle sex if there was any way either of them was interested.

Mike didn’t say ‘I love you, too’. Not even placatingly, not even in the way they’d said it to each other before. Not even in friendship, though Mike was always willing to say it that way, when the mood felt right, even if people would tease him for being queer.

That hurt far more than anything Mike had been worried about. He pretended it didn’t they talked about ideas for their next album until leaving his own room didn’t feel like he was tucking his tail between his legs and running.

+++

Mike didn’t even say ‘goodbye’ before they both left the room. That would have hurt, too, if Micky had thought about it.

He tried very hard not to think about it.

He also tried very hard not to think about the fact that soon enough they’d have no choice but to be right next to each other. They’d be leaving that night, to carry on with the tour, though they didn’t have much scheduled for the next few days except weddings and Niagara Falls.

It seemed a terrible time to go someplace so romantic.

He did talk to Peter and Davy. The only thing they said about Mike they didn’t know was about Mike at all:

Davy laughed and asked, “What the hell happened to you? You’re lucky we don’t have a show tonight!”

“I went to the zoo. A gorilla slapped me; he wanted my job,” Micky said, shrugging.

“A gorilla’s not a monkey,” Peter said, in a way that Micky wasn’t sure if he was trying for a joke, like he was aghast at the concept, or if he was just stating a fact. Micky was in the mood to be annoyed by things like that, but then Peter carried on with, “Sit down. I’ll get you a compress.” It was pretty hard to be annoyed by anyone who cared so much.

“That’s what I told him. So he let me go,” Micky said agreeably instead, sitting down. Then he asked, “You have a compress?” He wouldn’t have put it past Peter to have a stocked first aid kit.

“Well, no,” Peter said, “But I have a hand towel and running water.” He went to the bathroom and put the towel under the tap. “And I have herbal remedies, if you’re so inclined.”

That one got him, and Micky laughed.

They talked about other things, nothing things, for a while.

Eventually, though, Micky decided to talk to Ric. There were things he wanted to say that he couldn’t, to Davy and Peter. Maybe he couldn’t say them to Ric, either, if he really thought about it, but he found his way to Ric’s room all the same.

He opened the door only a crack without knocking, asking “Hey, man, d’you got a minute?”

“Hey! Of course. As a matter of fact, I have to talk to you, too.” Ric turned from what he was doing then, to greet him properly. “Jesus! You all right?”

Micky nodded. “Is it that bad? I haven’t looked in a mirror yet.”

“No. I bet it’s cleared up by the wedding….” There was something unsaid there, probably a hint to use makeup if it wasn’t.

Micky nodded his head. He didn’t explain as he stepped further into the room, going to sit on Ric’s bed. “You want to talk to me? For an interview?” he guessed, frowning.

“A little one,” Ric agreed, laughing. He pinched his fingers together. “Teeny-tiny, I promise. Is that why you haven’t stopped by, lately?”

“No,” Micky said. “I’ve just been busy.” He crossed his heart, though he felt almost sacrilegious doing so. It would have been the reason he hadn’t dropped in, if he hadn’t had another, better reason in getting entangled with Mike.

“I see that! Well—good. I know you don’t like them, but you should expect it.”

“I expected them from reporters. Not my friends. And Bert, and Bob, and Joe on the street,” Micky retorted. Ric actually looked a little taken aback at that, so he recanted, “Sorry. It’s nothing personal. I just want people to like me. Y’know, ‘External locus of self’,” he added, as a gag. Ric had taken psych with him in college, and it was one of the classes that was most easily referential. Most of the jokes from their architectural classes were a lot more obvious, and a lot more dirty; talk of ‘wood’ or knowing they wanted to get in the field when they were kids playing with ‘erector sets’. Architecture lent itself to lewdness. A real boys’ club. But even in the literal, Ric did know that; he’d been an actor as a kid, himself. Almost everyone who knew him could guess he had a fear of being disliked by the populace, but Ric and Davy were the ones who could understand where it came from. Even if Ric had shifted away from acting and Davy felt universally beloved, they at least got it.

And then again, Micky realized, maybe he had told another partial lie. Maybe it _was_ a little personal. They all hated interviews, and Ric really wasn’t a journalist. Not even the bubblegum variety of journalist that _Tiger Beat_ sent after them regularly. It meant that Ric didn’t tend to ask the rest of _The Monkees_ any questions at all. He’d been friends with Micky for years. He didn’t exactly abuse the privilege of friendship, but he felt a lot less shy about fielding questions for magazines because of it. Micky shook off the thought and asked, “What d’you gotta know?”

“I just want to know what you’re looking forward to for the rest of the tour.”

“Oh. That’s all?”

“Well, I don’t want you _too_ pissed at me. It’s too late to find another best man.”

Micky laughed. “Aw, well--- we’ve got a few days off. I’m digging the idea of Niagara Falls, I guess.”

Ric’s eyes flashed disappointment that Micky didn’t continue the idea to something more substantial, but he didn’t press after it. “No kidding. It must be beautiful-- I’m glad you guys let me come on tour with you. Why, it’ll practically be a double honeymoon!”

Micky had gifted them their actual honeymoon, so he said, “Gee, you’re right. I’m putting a lot into this wedding. Maybe I ought to come along with you."

“If you want to play solitaire while Frew and I have the time of our lives, be my guest,” Ric said. He knew that Micky was joking, of course, but he added, “We’d both probably let you, if you didn’t have the tour to contend with. I don’t think I could’ve gotten a better wedding, so cheap.”

“Boy, I bet Frew loves it when you call your wedding ‘cheap!’

Ric laughed. “She’s just fine with it, considering I put that much more towards our new house.”

Micky tipped his head and rocked a bit in a ‘yeah, I guess so’ sort of a way. It sounded reasonable enough, even if he never let girlfriends see him as ‘cheap’. He tried to be fiscally responsible because even an adult living in his own home he figured his mother would tan his hide if he lost all of his money. But he still bought expensive gifts for his girlfriends. And for his friends, considering the honeymoon wasn’t really an atypical present. And for himself. And maybe his mother was onto something, thinking he was a poor spender. “Y’know, I kind of wanted to talk to you about the wedding.”

“You don’t actually want to drop out, do you?” Ric asked. His eyes were wide.

“Huh? ‘Actually’?” It took a second for Micky to realize that the joke about not having time to replace him hadn’t entirely been teasing. “No. Of course not. There, that’s another thing I’m looking forward to! Your wedding. I love you, and Frew. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” It seemed suddenly important to say. Between Ric and Peter questioning his motivations for one reason or another, he was starting to get a sense that maybe he ought to work out his priorities.

Ric smiled. “I know. The wedding’s gotten me a little frazzled,” he added, meeting Micky halfway with the non-apologies. “You wouldn’t think I’d be so stressed—it’s going to be so small, on the road this way. Most our family isn’t even coming.”

“My mom and dad got married in a courthouse with two witnesses and they were still stressed. I think you’re doing all right.”

“Yeah?”

Micky smiled and nodded. “To be fair I was born three months ‘premature’,” he added air-quotes and raised-eyebrows to the word for extra emphasis. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Is _that_ why you want to buy a big house?”

Ric laughed. “No! Frew will skin me alive if I even joke about that,” he said, “You wanted to talk about the wedding?”

“Sort of. In the abstract.” Now that he was able, he found himself reluctant to talk. He almost wished Ric had pressed the point for an interview. He knew he’d regret _that_, too, if he actually suggested Ric ask him some more questions.

“Okay. I’m thinking abstractly.” 

Micky blinked and looked up at Ric. He’d gotten lost enough in his thoughts he was almost surprised by the reply. “Can I have a Coke? Or—something? Something with caffeine.” he asked. As Ric was going to grab him a drink, he said, “Were you ever scared that Frew wouldn’t want to marry you?”

Ric passed the bottle over, then sat back down next to Micky on the bed. “Of course not! I’m a catch! I think Frew had more to worry about than I did. Maybe you ought to ask her instead.”

Micky frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, you know what I mean. We’re more traditional than you and the rest of the guys. After a couple weeks together, it was up to me how we ended up. Unless I made a complete jerk out of myself—she’d have dumped me if she saw me running around with other girls after we started getting serious, probably. But I guess I took it for granted that if I asked she’d say ‘yes’.” Ric tipped his head. “You thinking of asking a girl to marry you?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I told you you were gonna be next,” his voice was sing-songy smugness.

“I’m not!” Micky groaned. “Man, it’d be like only eating oatmeal for every meal for the rest of my life.”

Ric made a noise at that, then laughed.

Micky recognized it as the sound of someone who was definitely offended but willing to accept it as a joke instead of fighting. He did that pretty often, himself. “Maybe I just haven’t met a girl like Frew yet,” he said. He and Ric had shared more opinions before he’d been swept up in _The Monkees_. In the hippy movement, maybe as a whole. He’d dated monogamously in high school and college, himself. He also hadn’t dabbled in any drugs, didn’t smoke, rarely drank. The only one of those things that was still true was smoking, but all of those things still held true for Ric.

Ric smiled. “She’s one of a kind,” he agreed.

“I just mean…Well you know Linda.”

“Linda?” Ric frowned in confusion, then realized. “_Linda_ Linda? You haven’t talked about her in a long time.”

“I’m not talking about her now, either. Not really.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“No, I know. Well. Every time I’ve been in love with someone, they don’t love me back. Linda dumped me after we were getting serious, even if it wasn’t traditional.” He figured girls could dump guys just as easily as the reverse, no matter what Ric thought on the matter. Though maybe not. He’d been surprised when Linda had broken up with him. He figured he was just easily dumpable. He wasn’t going to pick fights or yell or ruin reputations like some guys would. He was a world class piner and moper, but though she was probably aware of his dramatics, he never actually got in her way any. But that was still before the sexual revolution they were in the middle of, right then. Linda breaking things off with him still wasn’t typical as it would be even now, a few years later. “I know it sounds cornball, but I just want someone to love me back. And I want to know they do! And I don’t want to go saying it if they don’t.”

“So don’t say it. You make up words all the time. Make up some other word. If a girl doesn’t ‘florb’ you, who cares?”

“Well she better ‘florb’ me. If she doesn’t, she’ll just think I’m having a stroke,” Micky griped. He actually thought it sounded like a pretty good idea. An easy way to distance himself. “But I already said it and they didn’t say it back.”

“They? A ménage à trois, perchance?”

“That’d be even worse, if I couldn’t get _either_ of them to say it back,” Micky groused. “No. Listen, none of this’ll end up in a paper, right?”

Ric’s smile fell off his face. “Of course not.”

“Okay, good.”

But he didn’t continue.

It was Ric who got around to it. “It’s a ‘he’, right?”

Micky looked at his drink for a while. He took a long swig and let every memory of friendship he had with Ric ran through his head in one flash. Ric was less of a fighter than he was. He thought he could take him, if he had to. He looked up and met Ric’s eyes. “Right.”

Another beat. “Mike?”

Micky frowned. He didn’t have it in him to ask how Ric knew that. He didn’t want to know how obvious he’d been. “Right.”

“That why he hit you?”

“Something like that.” He would have denied it if he were a woman. But it wouldn’t hurt Mike’s reputation any to hit a guy for making advances. It was probably even expected. Micky would’ve been more likely to lock himself in the bathroom instead of hitting anyone, but that wasn’t exactly an impulse that guys respected.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

They looked at each other for a while. Micky didn’t know what that meant, whether Ric was saying he had it coming or if he thought Mike was likely to hit whoever made him mad. Both seemed equally likely, and both made Micky’s stomach churn. So he didn’t ask. What he did ask was, “You still want me as your best man?”

“I told you, I don’t have time to switch.” Ric gave him a smile to let him know it was teasing. “Besides, if I stopped talking to everyone who did something queer, I’d have to move out of Los Angeles.”

“So what should I do, about Mike?”

Ric’s entire head rolled in thought. He let out a dramatic kind of sigh. “I’m going to ask you the same thing I did with Linda.”

Micky knew the question already, but he nodded his head.

“Do you want my support or my opinion?”

He’d said ‘support’ with Linda. Even as he gazed out the window longingly, Ric would come by and rub his shoulder in solidarity. Ric would coo and tut and promise that Linda would come to her senses, even if every reasonable person knew she was long over him.

“Opinion,” he said this time.

Last time had been months of self-inflicted hurt. He didn’t have the luxury to daydream about Mike until December.

Ric took a breath. He put his hands on Micky’s shoulders and said, “Quit while you’re behind.”


	16. July 18-19: New York

Micky managed not to talk to Mike at all until they were on their way to Niagara Falls.

Although in perfect honesty that hadn’t been hard. It wasn’t even that he was trying. He just wasn’t going out of his way _to_ talk to Mike: Micky slept in the car on the way to their new hotel and slept in the room once they got there. If Mike came in at any point during the night like they’d both started to make a habit of doing, he wasn’t aware of it.

That didn’t mean he didn’t like the thought.

He’d always been the classical kind of romantic. He liked thinking of making intimate gestures, not necessarily dramatically, but the kind of thing that trod close to boundaries. The kind of thing that was only all right if you knew each other well. 

He and Mike knew each other well. Mike knew, as a whole, what lines of Micky’s were crossable and which weren’t. Micky liked thinking of the times Mike came into his room, and liked thinking of it even more if he didn’t know Mike was there with him. It was a nice kind of a thought that Mike really did like his company even in silence, even when he was unaware to it. It wasn’t so often he felt like his silence offered something worthwhile. He thought Mike had been telling the truth about that—even if Mike hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have been something he’d class as a ‘lie’. Rather, it would just be a joke he didn’t get because Mike could say anything in the world with a straight face.

They’d invited everyone that had been around in the morning to come to the Falls with them, but at that point it had been mostly just _The Sundowners_ instead of the friends and musicians that got sucked into them by proximity on the tour like houses in a tornado. Jimi leaving had taken _The Experience, _and most of the other folks that drifted in and out were part of the New York scene and doing their own thing in town. _The Sundowners_ were from New York, too, but were a much more permanent fixture on the tour. It just so happened they weren’t all that interested, so that whittled their group right back down. Micky could understand that. Neither he nor Ric had picked up on surfing only because everyone made such a big stink about it in California. If Niagara had always been an option to him, he’d probably pass it by, too.

So it happened that it was just the six of them—Ric and Frew and the band-- all piled into one car with security driving right ahead and right behind.

He and Mike squeezed in a few words then. Small-talk that was wrapped up in everyone else’s small-talk. He wouldn’t remember it in an hour. Even that was cut short by Peter and Mike going at each others’ throats over something he not only didn’t care about at that moment, but wouldn’t have cared about even if he were feeling more charitably towards Mike.

As it stood he wasn’t feeling charitable at all. He leaned over to Davy and asked, “You ever think of becoming a hitman? I got a couple hundred on me.”

“For _two_? Out of your mind. A thousand, at least.”

“You take checks?”

“What would you put in the memo, you twit? _No_, I don’t take checks.”

They smiled at each other. But there’d been a lull in Mike and Peter’s fight, which meant when Micky turned he got two pairs of eyes on him.

“You heard that, huh?” Not that he was surprised. He’d been stage-whispering, just low enough for some kind of plausible deniability that he wasn’t trying to stir the pot.

Peter and Mike were both riled up, wild eyes and red faces. Mike opened his mouth to yell at _him_. Micky lifted his eyebrows, waiting for it. But then Mike’s eyes took in his face and glazed over. Mike looked exactly the same as he had the day before, hand on Micky’s cheek and face above him.

“They’re right,” Mike said, “It’s no time to be fighting. Truce?”

Peter nodded and ‘truce’d right back, but he was looking for some kind of trick. Like maybe Mike had ended the fight just to seem kinder, to one up him. Peter missed nuance to conversations, and sometimes Micky thought that was why he and Mike got on like oil and water. He thought you had to be able to read between the lines to really like Mike.

Then again, Micky’d been told plenty of times that he’d ignore a lot just to keep someone his friend. Peter did that, too; he’d give the shirt off his back. And pants and socks—in fact clothes were the easiest things to bum off of him, considering Peter liked being a nudist. In any case, maybe it said something that Mike was where Peter drew a line in the sand.

Micky considered that. He looked at Mike as discreetly as he could, more to get one by the rest of the party than Mike himself. He knew full well he couldn’t be sly enough to get secret glances past Mike. He was always a little too obvious and Mike was always a little too astute. Indeed, Mike’s eyes ticked up and Mike’s silly smile—curved like a U with eyebrows raised high—met him after no time at all. Micky couldn’t keep his heart from warming. He smiled back on reflex, then looked away.

He’d never taken Mike as cruel or mean. Bull-headed, short-sighted and controlling, but even now when he went looking for genuine meanness he couldn’t find it. Most of the time when Mike picked fights, Micky found himself thinking Mike was right. At least, he found the position right. He usually found the fight itself unnecessary and exhaustive. But that was how Mike had been able to get things done on the ground floor. Micky’s particular brand of fighting worked on an office level. Like CEOs or business managers, he could get things done if he put his mind to it. Talking, schmoozing, negotiation. He hadn’t had the heart for it before-- Even when he’d been selling cars he’d been a little too honest to do it properly. But the more management screwed them the more he found the idea of wheeling and dealing appealing. He could see himself becoming hard-nosed to protect his own interests, for good or for bad. But he’d never be able to be an employee like they all were, now, and bulldoze his way to something like Mike could.

It was easy to take that kind of a thing for something it wasn’t. It was easy to make it selfish and mean. Most people could even probably see it from Donnie’s perspective: Mike had been a petulant child who threatened to quit if he didn’t get his way. Micky saw it differently. Really it was like Dick Tracy being held hostage and spitting in the face of his captors. Or like a cowboy, squint-eyed about to do a fast draw. It was being willing to lose everything to keep principles intact. It had thrilled him when Mike had threatened Donnie. Micky thought about it often and got tingles each time. But it was something that had deeply, viscerally upset Peter and Davy. They didn’t see it the way he did.

He decided if either of them misjudged Mike, it was Peter. But turnabout was fair play on that one: Mike hadn’t judged Peter well, either.

He shook off his thoughts.

Guilt struck Micky hard, but he couldn’t pin down what he was actually guilty for. He turned his head--

Someone who didn’t miss nuance was Davy.

Maybe there wasn’t enough said in silence for Davy to work out everything. There was enough for him to work it through halfway.

Luckily, he and Davy were the sorts who could speak in silence.

Thin-drawn lips, squinted eyes, furrowed brow, Davy silently asked _You want me to get him back for you?_

Tipped head, a slow blink with rolled eyes, half smile and one soft shake of the head. _No, we’re square._

Davy gave Mike a brief sizing-up sort of a glance, but he let out a breath and settled in his seat.

The rest of the ride was friendly.

+++

The falls were amazing. There was a reason they showed up on so many postcards. _Wish you were here_. Whatever sour feelings were held between them were put on time out. Mike and Peter laughed together the way they often only did nowadays if Mike were drunk or Peter stoned. Or preferably both.

Whether or not it had been intentional before, Micky found it impossible to keep giving Mike the silent treatment. He bounced between everyone, snapping pictures of them all and having them take pictures of him in turn. He talked to each and every one of them in excitable chatter.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he asked Mike, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

“On occasion,” Mike said, giving him a soft smile in return.

He didn’t elaborate, and Micky didn’t notice. “Well, yeah, me too, I guess. I’ve seen some pretty groovy things on tour, and um—when I was uh, on _Circus Boy_, you know, I got to go a lot of places with my dad. We went in a real big Ferris wheel, at night, with the stars and the lights. Well, this is probably better. Man, can you imagine going over Niagara Falls in a barrel?”

“Nobody give Micky a barrel,” Mike said.

Micky carried on, “A barrel full of Monkees! We could do that as our next promotion, everyone could come up here and—”

“No,” came several voices at once, so remarkably in unison that Micky went bug-eyed and took a step back in shock. 

They laughed, all together.

There was more chatter. Micky rambled out a daydream of going to the Canadian side so they could see the Falls in their entirety. That was something that didn’t get a resounding ‘no’ all around. Mike even offered to take him for a nice, long drive to do it that night. It would take almost a full day for them to get there and back again, but they both liked long drives with far-off destinations.

If it had been any other time, any other place, Micky would have gone for it.

+++

Mike came by that night while Micky was trying on his suit for Ric’s wedding. Micky had tried it on probably a dozen times before, but nerves had him practicing everything as authentically as he could.

There was a difference to how things had been lately: Mike knocked and even announced himself.

It was instinct that had Micky tell him to ‘come in’, though he wouldn’t have had the heart to turn Mike out even if he’d had time to think it through. He smiled at Mike over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

“Handsome,” Mike said, stepping to him. He straightened Micky’s tie, though it wasn’t at all necessary for something that wasn’t even a rehearsal. “I’d like it better if you let your hair go.”

“Me, too,” Micky agreed. He’d been letting loose on it a little because being on tour allowed it. No one was going to dog him over straight hair when the schedule was so tight as it stood. It didn’t matter much right then. He didn’t really want to look like a hippy with love beads and crazy hair at Ric’s wedding, anyway, so he’d taken the time to have it straightened out. “Someday I’m gonna wear it like Bill.” He was a little jealous—Bill had straightened his hair, too, back when he’d auditioned for _The Monkees_. It was one of the ways Micky thought Bill was lucky he hadn’t gotten the part.

“That’ll be a sight,” Mike said mildly.

Micky had the thought that Mike was going to kiss him, but instead Mike took a step back. “What’re you wearing?” Micky asked, to take up whatever awkward silence threatened them.

Mike’s brows furrowed. “To the wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been disinvited.” 

“What? When? Today? Because of me? I’ll go talk to Ric,” Micky babbled, spouting questions even as his own brain answered them.

Mike put a hand on his chest. Micky looked down at the touch. “Don’t bother. I have to admit I thought it was you asking for it—”

“—it wasn’t!”

Mike gave a slight smile. He withdrew his hand. “Either way there’s no hard feelings. It’s his prerogative who goes to his wedding. He only invited me because of you to start with. And I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people crashing it without me being involved.”

Mike was right about all of it. Ric had never been a fan of Mike’s, though it was more apathy than actual dislike at least until recently. All of The Monkees had only gotten invites because it seemed exclusionary otherwise, though Ric was friends with Davy and at least friend_ly_ with Peter and Mike. Mike wasn’t even wrong about the party-crashers. Even Micky, who often shared insider secrets with the fans, had done his best to keep it under wraps. But they all knew better than to think that meant anything; Ric and Frew had already actively decided that so long as the fans behaved themselves they’d be allowed to stay. It was both easier and made for better press, to get on with the fans when possible.

“Dress up as a teenage girl, that’d get you in,” Micky offered to keep it light-hearted.

“I’ll keep my cross-dressing to the show.”

Micky lifted his eyebrows and shrugged a little, an ‘aw, shucks, if you say so’, sort of a thing.

They stood a while longer in a strange sort of silence. The static filled kind, like standing on the beach during a storm.

“What’d Ric say?” Micky ventured after a moment.

“Just that I couldn’t go slapping his best man around even if he did deserve it.”

Micky let out a long, slow breath. He nodded his head. “I didn’t say anything I thought’d make you look bad,” he said.

Mike fixed him with a funny sort of a look, but didn’t say anything.

“Davy might ask you about it, too. I didn’t say anything to him, but he catches on. He and Ric are close, anyway.” It was more likely, probably, that Davy would ask him or Ric for clarification instead of Mike. Davy had fallen out of the habit of picking fights with Mike once it seemed like he might actually get one, but that would only hold true until Davy got a wild hair and decided taking shots at Mike was worth the possibility of a knockout.

Mike nodded. “Did you lie to Ric?”

Micky paused. “Only a little. Same way I lied to Peter. I made it real one-sided.”

“Do you want me to lie to Davy, if he asks?”

There was another pause. Micky undid his tie and went to hang it up while he thought it over. “Yeah. Might as well. Just make out like I was begging for you so you clocked me one.” Although he thought he’d be suffering quite a bit more if Mike really had ‘clocked him’ instead of giving him one firm open-handed slap.

“If that’s how you want it,” Mike said.

Micky couldn’t work out if Mike was offering an opinion through that or not. His dad used to do that; say ‘if that’s what you think is best’ in a way that made Micky know his father _didn’t_ think it was best. That kind of thing had driven him crazy, and was part of the reason they hadn’t been close when his father died. Mike’s tone was more cryptic. It lacked the parental inflection, which meant it was possible he was trying to follow Micky’s judgment instead of question it. 

“That’s how I want it,” Micky agreed, taking off his suit jacket to hang over the back of a chair. Most importantly it was easier to keep one half-lie straight than it was to spout different amounts of truth to everyone. His lies had at least been consistent so far, and they’d been close enough to truths that he didn’t feel guilty telling them. The secondary worry about just how much the guys would be willing to let slide was starting to wane a little. Ric hadn’t seemed bothered, and Peter was more worried about his ideas being treated fairly than how Micky had felt about Mike. Davy was still a wildcard, but it was feeling like the odds were stacking in his favor. Maybe that was to be expected in the circles they ran in: He knew Jimi had fucked men. Mick Jagger fucked men. Peter had at least fucked one, and even before Micky had known that he knew Peter would make an exception for Davy.

He heard Mike’s footsteps.

He turned to face the sound.

When Mike kissed him, he kissed back. He didn’t draw back quickly, but did so surely.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore,” Micky said, the words coming out all in a rush.

Mike nodded.

The devil’s advocate would say he didn’t need to explain. It wasn’t like he could read Mike’s mind. That meant he didn’t know what Mike was thinking, only that Mike accepted without complaint. But he did know, deep down in his gut without Mike needing to say anything at all. He knew that Mike thought he was scared. Thought he’d found everything that had happened between them abusive. Probably forgivable only from necessity, because it wouldn’t be possible to carry on with the tour if he wasn’t willing to give it a pass. Because no matter his thoughts on classical romance, there were lines that weren’t excusable to cross, no matter the dramatics of _Gone with the Wind_ and its ilk. He knew that what he was telling Mike was really, _you fucked up, but I’ll let it slide because there’s no other option._ And if he wasn’t hitting the mark with a bullseye in all the things he knew Mike was thinking, well, it was at least close enough.

He knew that.

But he didn’t have the guts to admit to having his feelings hurt instead.

“We’re okay,” was all he could manage.

“Sure,” Mike said, stepping back and away from him.

“No, I mean. _**We’re okay**_.” Micky said. It felt like Mike had taken it as a question, so he said it firmly this time. That was as far as he could take it without having to explain everything.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mick,” Mike said.

Micky knew it hadn’t been enough.

+++

Ric’s wedding was a truly beautiful occasion. It was a small thing, but that wasn’t really on account of hiding from the fans. Ric was always friendly and nice, but despite having been an actor himself he wasn’t exactly extroverted. There was probably a reason that he’d switched gears, beyond the usual reason that trying to make it in the acting biz often left you starving. The affair would have been small and intimate no matter where and when they’d had it.

“When are you going to get married, Micky?” Coco teased him from his right, over dinner. She’d come down just for the wedding, though she planned to stay a few days longer. Micky almost hoped she could pop on stage once or twice before she went back home. He’d always loved singing with her; it was about as near as he could get to singing with himself, and they sounded beautiful together. Even if that thought was probably egotistical.

“Never would be a day too soon,” he said. It was a little snappy, but that was only because the press had already asked him twice already. And because he was allowed to be snappy, with Coco.

Samantha glanced up from her plate. She smiled instead of looking offended, which was a lot to ask from a date. “Marriage only matters on paper,” she agreed.

"Mmm-hmmm," Coco hummed, smiling big, very deliberately.

"She's always like this. You can't take her anywhere," Micky told Sam, shaking his head. Then he looked Coco over. All of the bridesmaids had worn a veil just like Frew’s, along with a nice, white dress. It had almost seemed like a gag, though Micky hadn’t asked after any _faux pas_. He tried to stay out of things like that. “You almost look like a bride, right now. Brings a tear to my eye.” He wiped away an imaginary tear.

Samantha laughed.

“Don’t change the subject. I can’t wait to be an aunt,” Coco lamented. “You were such a cute baby!”

“You wouldn’t know,” Micky said. He also had the thought that he didn’t need to be married to make Coco an aunt. But Coco was studying to be a pastor under their stepfather’s tutelage, and she liked it better when she could turn a blind eye to his sins.

But Coco followed up like she didn’t hear, “I wonder what happened?”

Micky glowered.

Sam laughed.

Micky turned to look at her, aghast.

“You were a cute baby. I saw your pictures in the paper,” Sam said.

Micky lifted his eyebrows and inclined his head. “And?”

“And you’re still cute,” she reassured him with a smile.

Micky beamed, leaning in to kiss her chastely. Almost chastely. Chaste enough for a wedding, considering he’d had a couple glasses to drink. Sam was a social smoker and had had a cigarette over the course of their meal. He could taste the nicotine and smoke when their lips met.

He’d almost thought of Mike a few times over the course of the wedding, but had managed to keep it all in the peripheral. He'd been too busy and too comfortable, too happy with his company and too thrilled for Ric and Frew to spend the day worrying. But he thought of Mike then: Mike’s mouth never tasted like any vices that he didn’t share.

He really hated cigarettes.

But he liked kissing Sam all the same, and he did it again. If he hoped it would chase the taste of Mike out of his mind, well, no one had to know.

Nor would they know the disappointment he felt when it did just the opposite.

That was the thing, with pushing thoughts out of your mind. It was never just a trickle of memory. It always burst down the dam, flooded everything and left you struggling to keep your head above water. It didn't matter that he'd loved the wedding. It didn't matter that he loved being with his sister and Samantha, that they'd laughed the entire meal together. None of it mattered. Once Mike had made his way into Micky's head, he was there to stay.

Micky stopped to chat with the fans after the wedding had come to a close. There weren’t so many of them; just enough to fill up the back pews, and there’d even been enough food for the handful that had hung around after the ceremony. He, Davy, and Peter all signed autographs before they made their way outside. He thought of Mike once more, then, and the longing that hit him left him cold. It never felt right, when there were only three of them around, and since the tour had started it had begun to sit wrong when he was out of Mike's company for anything important. But with thinking of Mike came the stomach-churning guilt of how they'd left things, so he smiled wide, grabbed Sam by the hand, and took her to the car to whisk her away.


	17. July 20: New York

Micky woke up with a start when Davy ripped his covers off. Davy wasn’t even taken aback by the fact he’d fallen asleep in the nude, and reached out to grab his right foot and shake it violently. “C’mon, mate, up and at’em!”

“Go away,” Micky said. He would have said it crabbily, but he was still half-asleep and it came out whiny instead. He rolled over to bury his head into his pillow.

“Believe me, if I could be looking anywhere besides the scenic view I’ve got right now, I would be,” Davy countered. “But we’re back on the grind today, Skilletface. You’ve got to get out of bed. Where’s the alarm I bought you?”

“I still got it. It’s a paperweight now.”

“Flew into the door, did it?”

“The wall.”

“_Get up_, Micky.”

“Go away, I’m sick.”

“Are you really?”

“Cough, cough. Sneeze.” 

“You have a few too many at Ric’s bash?” Davy asked, serious instead of playing into a bit this time.

Micky considered it, then shook his head. Wine was what had been on offer, and that always struck him differently than the harder alcohols somehow. All the same, he hadn’t had enough to even get very buzzy; he didn’t care much about being drunk in front of their fans, but stealing attention off of Ric’s wedding was just bad enough form to put him off. “I don’t want to be a musician anymore,” he decided. “I want to go to California where I can blow my brains out in the privacy of my own home.”

There was a very loud silence. It woke Micky up more than Davy had done.

He never made a secret of having bouts of depression. He was pretty sure he’d talked to Davy about it within a week of starting the show. His family had always been open about that kind of a thing. Even his father, who would shirk the emotional duties onto his mother, would sit him down to talk or even pop him into therapy if he started seeming too melancholy. Still, this wasn’t the usual kind of thing he said about it. Every bit of that combined was the reason it landed so poorly: Some people could likely mark it up as a gag. Whether he’d been joking or not, his history precluded it from being funny.

Micky sat up. It seemed a very bad idea to stay immobile. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.

Davy stared at him a while, then seemed to decide he was being honest. “Well, I’d rather you say it and not mean it than mean it and not say it. But if it’s all the same, try not to say it.” He leaned in to give Micky a pinch near his ribs, and Micky laughed.

He wanted a time-out. An actual vacation. Just enough time to recharge his batteries. The semi-vacation of going to Niagara Falls and Ric’s wedding hadn’t done him any good the way he thought it would, though he’d enjoyed it. He decided he’d have to make time to just sit and build Go-Karts, or drive around, or paint, or maybe some metal-working when he got back home. As easy as it would have been to blame the situation with Mike for bringing him down, he was self-aware enough to know that was only one straw of many on the camel’s back. He’d been on the edge of… something, before they’d gone on tour. With or without Mike the long hours, skipped meals, days lost to drugs, and erratic sleep schedules, weren’t exactly doing him any favors. There wasn’t any special, deep insight to knowing all these things. He just had no control to change some and no desire to change the rest. “I think I’ve missed out on three months’ sleep. I get why bears hibernate now.”

Davy chuckled. The stiffness in his shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “Believe me, I know. One of these days I’m going to wake up with gray hair.”

“_You_? _Davy Jones_? _Gray **hair**_? Fah! You look like the doctor just spanked you yesterday,” Micky returned. He held out his hands, grabbing at the air like a kid would, and Davy obliged in tugging him up to his feet.

He took a shower, got dressed, and was starting to feel human by the time they went to get interviewed. Or at the very least, human-adjacent.

Micky made a mistake halfway through their interview. He started counting the days until they were back home; it wasn’t like he needed to listen. The questions were all the same. Even the questions that journalists found hard-hitting about youth in America, the hippy movement, the drug movement, had been asked a dozen times before. Really he just had to be on the lookout for Peter winding up to rant about capitalism or the electoral process or something. Even then it probably wouldn’t come down to him: Mike and Davy were both a little faster at picking up when Peter was going to be ranting—or they were at least quicker-witted and able to defer faster-- and they were far more likely to nip it in the bud.

Tomorrow they’d be in Maryland. In a week they’d be _back_ in New York. In two weeks—when was that? Texas? Three weeks, Oklahoma, maybe. Four, Washington. Five, still Washington. They’d be on their last show in the Coliseum. Five weeks. Almost exactly, he thought. Five weeks didn’t sound so awful. ‘Almost forty days’ sounded absolutely terrible. He thunked his head down onto the conference table.

“Don’t mind him,” came Davy’s voice to his left. Davy’s hand settled in his hair and started petting him a bit, almost absentmindedly like one would a cat. “He’s a bit knackered from Ric Klein’s wedding. But he’ll be in top form at the show tonight.”

That launched a whole series of questions about the wedding, and Davy fielded all of them, up to and including how Micky felt about being best man. It was a very nice thing, a Very Nice thing, to have friends like Davy who would let him be spontaneously idiotic instead of slapping him to get him to sit back upright. Everyone could do with a friend or two like Davy.

Micky managed it to haul himself back up in the end, just in time for bright smiles and posing for all the flashing cameras.

+++

Micky made what he decided was a very informed decision when he dropped acid an hour before the show. He managed to even talk himself into it being a _smart_ decision. It would probably be a pick-me-up; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a truly bad trip. The crowd would want him to be in a better mood, he figured. He liked to think he was a professional who wouldn’t half-ass anything because he wasn’t in the mood, and he also knew secondhand from the police escorts that the audience would either not know or give him a pass if he _did_ half-ass it. Still, he figured The Monkees’ fans were invested in the band’s happiness and wellbeing. He liked to think they’d know if any of the band were in a sour mood. Except maybe Mike, who people often thought was in a sour mood.

That meant that worst case scenario, it would be boring, unmemorable trip. It might make the crowd squirm and shine like glow worms or something. Best case scenario…. Well, he’d seen Jimi take a tab of acid before he went on stage. If getting high made him suddenly become the Jimi Hendrix of the drums, he was pretty sure _The Monkees _would be unstoppable. He figured even Mike, who didn’t much like it when any of them smoked pot before stepping on stage, would be thrilled if his playing was made as masterful as Jimi’s. It might even make Mike change his tune on the benefits of playing while inebriated.

It was like a science experiment, with himself as a guinea pig.

There wasn’t anything to lose.

He was right that the trip was a nice one. It was hitting just as they were getting ready to step on stage, and it was wonderful.

He was wrong about the rest of it.

“What the hell did you take?” Mike asked. Micky was fidgeting, but he often was—it was his pupils that gave him away.

Micky laughed. “Just a couple tabs. Like Jimi!”

Micky’s voice was often a little loud, a little fast, in a way that made Mike think of a little yappy dog that was very anxiously aware of themselves. Right then it was very loud, very fast, passionate and eager. Micky still seemed overly-aware of himself, but it was different than his usual dogness, in Mike’s eyes.

“A couple,” Mike echoed. Jimi had only taken one, though he knew that wasn’t really the difference. Micky wasn’t nearly as experienced with psychedelics and tended to have a low tolerance besides.

The crowd was already rearing to go, cheering for _The Sundowners_, except maybe really cheering for _The Monkees_. They whistled and yelled and screeched. Mike grabbed Micky’s drumsticks and shoved them into his hands.

Micky happily tried to take them, but his hands were the wrong size, too small to hold onto anything. Or maybe the sticks were just too big. The sticks dropped to the ground and rattled a little, like they might if he was playing on the snare. He stared at them as they vibrated against the dirt. Sharp, bright, beautiful. They let out a happy, yellow thrum of a thing that made him smile.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Mike. “Peter, get Bill. Davy… Put him somewhere.” He took Micky by the shoulders and shoved him.

Micky sucked in a loud, gasping breath. It felt like a freefall, skydiving, the sky expanded and the earth shrunk, even though he barely stumbled and Davy grabbed him up maybe half a foot away.

“Easy, Mike,” Davy snapped, but he turned Micky around and led him off before they could get into a fight about it.

Peter went without complaint to go grab Bill, who always tagged along on shows anyway. Bill was talented enough to fill in if any of them were sick and often had done so in the studio. He hadn’t had to do so on the tour yet, but Mike wasn’t worried about the reception. Even if Bill weren’t used to the role of stand-in, he looked the part of Micky when seen from a far-away, love-blind audience. Mike thought the crowd wouldn’t even know the difference—though Mike already decided to bite his tongue on that part when he chewed Micky out for this stunt in the morning. He was sure any one of them could be swapped out on stage without being noticed, and while Mike found that to be a good laugh, he knew Micky was the sort who would be crushed by it.

Davy took Micky walking about until he found a chair. He plopped Micky down into it. “Can you stay here until the show’s over?” he asked, putting his hands on Micky’s shoulders and leaning down to stare at him very close.

“Sure,” Micky agreed, nodding his head. 

Davy drew his lips into a line. He stepped away from Micky, then stepped back. Glanced over his shoulder towards the show. He knew well enough that acid made Micky want to wander if he wasn’t suitably surrounded by people to talk to. Even after the fact he got a little antsy for the outdoors, for companionship and connection; he was fairly certain Micky’d been coming down when he’d sung to all the kiddies in Hyde Park, though Micky was perfectly capable of being a nut without any influence. A few more moments of debate, and Davy finally turned to grab the nearest roadie. “Watch him,” he demanded. He took a few steps away with eyes still fixed on Micky, then let out a frustrated huff, turned around, and jogged back onto the stage where Mike was already tuning his guitar to the cheers of the audience.

Micky did stay put exactly, not moving one bit, for the first few songs. Sitting there, listening to songs that he knew he ought to be singing, was almost a religious experience. An out-of-body experience. He turned to the roadie and asked, “I sound good, right?” but lost focus before he got an answer.

Mike sounded even better than he did. Micky always felt attached and protective of Mike’s songs, but this time was different. There was so much in them; he could see the colors, feel the weight of the love. It was warm but left him shivering, a blanket that someone else could wrap themselves up in. He couldn’t remember the time. All at once it felt like nighttime, pitch black, though he could see everything with midday clarity. The trip was spinning on its edge, a flipped coin, heads or tails, threatening to turn very sad and dark. He realized without thinking of it that he should leave. Whoever had been babysitting him must have left at some point, or maybe he just didn’t hear them. When he stood to walk until he found light, like Hansel and Gretel making their way out of a thick, dark forest, no one tried to stop him. At least he wasn’t aware of anyone trying to. He had a pinpoint focus on getting out into the sunlight where it was nice and warm.

He found the sun in the headlights of one of the cars parked behind the venue. Fractal-flowers swum around the gaps in the sidewalk as he stepped towards it. It must have been one of theirs. He wouldn’t remember if he’d gotten into it by himself or if he’d been intercepted and been put in the back of it. It took two tries to gauge the distance to the door handle. The back seat had a crack in the leather that made him think of the desert. He realized he was thirsty. He turned his eyes to the back of the driver’s head. “Hey, man, you wanna get a drink with me?”

Micky tried looking out the window on the way to the bar, but he became too aware of the motion of the sky and buildings and trees that they passed by. He knew he was high and knew that the acid would make everything move, pulse, shift, make sky go fastfastfast the way they sometimes did on TV, fast-forwarding through the whole day, the sun rising and setting in seconds. He was also aware that looking out the window of a car usually made things zip by, motion-blur. Being aware of both of these things seemed to make the whole world sit still, frozen, breathing, waiting, watching. It alarmed him enough to look away. First at the rear-view mirror, then at the back of the driver’s seat when he couldn’t stand looking at himself.

He usually drank his beer straight from the bottle, but he dropped the first one. His fingers were still figuring out their size. The bottle didn’t shatter, but spilled; the alcohol was pretty and distracting on the ground, iridescent under the dim lights. Like gasoline. As he thought of that, he could smell it, and he might’ve said something to that end when the man next to him lit a cigarette. But maybe he didn’t.

The next beer came in a tankard. Micky was able to hold onto that one, if he put his mind to it a bit.

He lost track of the time there, talking and flirting and drinking. He felt like he could drink gallons, drink a whole ocean. He didn’t notice when the driver told the bartender to switch him over to water.

He started to become aware of himself again when he was laying in his bed, looking up at the ceiling and feeling the press of lips against his neck. Kiss-prints, the kind often left on handkerchiefs as love-tokens, floated in front of his eyes with each press of full lips. They glowed molten, lava-like. It was beautiful and scalding. It was absolutely incredible.

Micky looked down at black hair hanging into the face that was kissing his stomach. He hadn’t felt anxious before, but seeing it made calm wash over him. Feeling the hair tickle against him sounded like windchimes. Gentle and rhythmic, the sweet tinny sound made for strange mood music. Micky had only felt so connected, such one-ness with someone once before, high or not, laying by the pool in North Carolina. He could see the same stars in the popcorn of the ceiling; he could read the constellations just as they’d been then.

Micky was working his pants down when the door opened. He didn’t care that there’d been no knock, and he smiled.

“Hey, Pete,” Micky said. “D’you wanna join us?”

Peter looked at him fondly, but shook his head. “You aren’t your true self right now, Micky,” he said.

Though that was vague enough to mean just about anything in the world, Micky understood it. And it had nothing to do with the fact he was in the middle of a trip.

“Do you mind if I talk to you alone?” Peter asked. His voice was very calm, pointed and direct.

Micky nodded his head. “Okay.”

Peter asked the same thing of the man who was kissing near Micky’s navel.

He took around an extra sentence to convince, but any complaints he would have had about it died when Peter gave him a bag of hash for his troubles. Micky pulled him down and gave him a long, lingering kiss goodbye. But then, everything had felt a little long, a little lingering. It was altogether possible it was nothing more than a peck.

Peter took a seat on Micky’s nightstand, cross-legged.

Micky settled back into the bed and closed his eyes.

Peter didn’t say anything at all to him, and it didn’t occur to Micky that this ran contrary to why they kicked his companion out of the room. They sat in silence for a long, long while. Eventually Micky got taken up by thinking. By thinking about thinking. By the fact he could think, was thinking, that he was thinking about thinking. That he was so small, nothing but neurons firing. Misfiring. “I should’ve been an architect,” he said, just to hear himself speak, to make sure he still had something tangible and hadn’t thought himself down to nothing.

“Instead of a musician?” Peter asked, legitimately curious.

“Instead of me,” Micky said.

“You’d still be yourself as an architect,” said Peter. “And there’s no reason you’re not an architect now.”

“I didn’t finish school,” Micky said. Tears made his eyes glassy, though they didn't fall. He became very aware of them. The heat of the water, the itch of the salt.

“Have you ever heard of Hundertwasser?” Peter asked.

Micky shook his head.

“He feels architecture has become censored the way art and music have. Building from your own mind without rules and restrictions is the only way to create art. Not finishing school has kept you from being chained to uniformity. All of the houses are starting to look the same. Sears used to sell homes from a catalog; they were architects, but they weren't artists. You’re an architect, a builder, too—you’re just also an artist. That’s better. It means you’re not bound by regulatory scrutiny by a government that wants us all to be the same. Be proud of individuality.”

Micky looked at Peter’s individuality, eyes focusing right on his pair of mismatched socks. Micky usually saw that as a Peter-the-weirdo thing, but at that moment it struck him deeply, profoundly, how even clothes could be rebellion. Everything was an exercise in self.

Micky didn’t talk much for a long while. He focused on himself, on not losing himself into the dark places of his trip. Peter must have recognized his silence this time, and started talking to Micky, or talking to himself, about all those deep and beautiful things that Peter always talked about. Micky was rarely in the frame of mind to appreciate them, but at that moment he was grateful.

It took a long stretch before Micky finally asked, “How come you came over? What’d you want to talk about?”

“Nothing,” said Peter, “Michael asked me to keep an eye on you until you were sober.”

“Oh,” Micky said. It took a second for his brain to catch up to make a joke, “I’ll get rid of you when I retire?”

Peter didn’t laugh, but he smiled a little. A pity smile, though Peter was too nice to ever call it that.

Micky took another, long beat of silence to work out the rest of his thoughts. First and foremost, he started off surprised that Peter listened to Mike, but that shock only lasted as long as it took for him to remember the circumstances. Peter was all about safe sex—in the practical if not prophylactic sense—and safe drug use. Tending to friends in the middle of a trip was par the course for Peter, so maybe it was more surprising that Mike asked than that Peter listened. He chased that thought like Alice’s white rabbit, to wind up with, “Why didn’t he just come, himself?”

It wasn’t anything he needed an answer to. It was only hurt that had him asking at all, but he knew that hurt was self-inflicted.

“You’re asking the wrong person, Micky.”

Micky shrugged.

“You really should talk to Michael.”

Micky shrugged.

“Davy told me he’s the one who hit you.”

“I’m not mad at Mike about that,” Micky said. He couldn’t remember how many people he’d told—only Davy and Ric, he guessed—but it felt like something he’d gone over a thousand times. Maybe it was only his own thoughts that were to blame for the redundant loop.

“No,” Peter said, unsurprised and unquestioning. “You really have a type, you know. Blonde women and brunet men.”

“I like all women,” Micky countered. A defensive edge was working up in his voice.

“And only one man?” Peter asked, still perfectly calm. “He looked a lot like Michael. He even had an accent—Although I doubt it was Texan. Did you hear it?”

“I wasn’t worried about his voice.”

Peter smiled. “Talk to Mike,” he reiterated. He’d fallen out of the habit of using the nickname, seemingly with purpose. But he used it then and even sounded fond. “He cares about you.”

Micky knew well enough that Peter didn’t pay Mike compliments lightly. This was especially true when it came to emotions, where Peter found Mike regularly out of touch. “Yeah. Maybe,” he said. He was sure Mike would be cornering him at some point tomorrow to yell at him for being irresponsible and wrecking the show, even though Peter had given no indication that it had been ruined at all with his absence.

That in itself stung a little, but they were all about even, singing-wise, on this tour and his drum skills weren’t exactly the selling point. He knew better than to take it personally that there wasn’t a riot in the stadium that he wasn’t there to sing. He almost wondered if they’d even acknowledged it—Mike sometimes got a kick out of calling songs the wrong name and being generally confusing, so if he was the one that started up the introductions Micky thought it was likely that would just be another secret just-for-Mike gag. At least, that was _one _way for Micky to take it. The other option would be that it was a secret dig at him, a barb telling him he wasn’t so special; he was easily replaced and no one would notice his absence.

He’d had enough of getting caught in his head for one night, so he tried to shake that thought off. Even if he knew for a fact his absence hadn’t been acknowledged, he liked to think Mike respected him—liked him—enough not to use it as leverage against him. He knew he couldn’t be tossed from _The Monkees_ the way he’d been from _The One-Nighters_, but he still liked to think the band wouldn’t do that to him even if they had the power.

Micky realized very abruptly who the band would oust if it could. In the shadow of everything, it would be Mike. Mike who fought with management. Mike who often fought with Peter, who sometimes fought with Davy, who was now fighting with Micky. Mike, who had already been willing to quit outright to get what he wanted. Mike, who Micky wanted nothing and everything to do with. Mike, Mike, Mike. 

Just as abruptly he knew he’d have to extract himself from any fight that could be used to tear Mike down. 

“I’ll talk to Mike tomorrow,” he said, more to himself than to Peter.


	18. July 21: Baltimore

Once he resolved himself to it, Micky realized that talking to Mike was harder than it was to simply avoid him. So to speak, anyway, considering the fact they were on their way to Baltimore before Micky even felt completely normal and uninhibited, and he was left napping beside Mike as a result. He was at least lucky that the LSD had seemed to outweigh the alcohol and he hadn’t been hit with a hangover, because he had a feeling that would’ve tipped the scales into not talking to Mike for at least another day. Maybe a week. He didn’t think he’d be able to manage the entire tour, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t tempting.

As it stood, the biggest deterrent was that Micky thought this was going to have to turn into a groveling apology. He liked to think he was the sort of person who didn’t have a problem apologizing when he was wrong. There was, after all, more good to be said about someone who admitted their faults than someone who shoved them under the rug with the rest of their dirty secrets. As a matter of fact, he was even all for a little groveling. As long as you were sincere, being _funny_ in your apology tended to patch problems up faster. It tended to save a bit of pride to boot.

No, the problem wasn’t apologizing. Not really. The problem was that he wanted tit-for-tat. His hurt feelings whined childishly that he ought to at least get an apology _back_. But Mike was the kind of guy who got forgiveness because his actions said he earned it, not because he’d actually say ‘I’m sorry’. At least from guys like Micky that was how he got it. The other options were Mike converted you to his way of thinking or he just burned the bridge entirely.

Besides, he knew not being loved wasn’t something to apologize for.

Sure, he knew that.

But the embarrassed ache that sat square in his chest _didn’t_ know any way to get over heartbreak besides pining and moping. And maybe a little crying. While talking with Ric had solidified that working with Mike meant he had to get over it faster, it wasn’t just that: He could justify some insanity with a girl. With a man…. He could justify going out, getting wasted, and getting laid. Besides that, it seemed the only options were to be reasonable, maybe even businesslike. Shaking hands and being done with it.

He forced himself not to smoke up when he got to the hotel. He dropped his things in his room and walked straight down the hall to Mike’s.

He didn’t knock, but asked, “You mind if I come in?” once he’d opened the door.

Mike looked up. He was doing things the proper, orderly way and putting some things in the dresser. Micky didn’t understand that one bit, considering how soon they were going to be moving on to the next place. Personally if they weren’t staying long, Micky lived out of his suitcase or just bought something new to get a change of clothes.

It made Micky smile a little, and he smiled more when Mike said, “I don’t mind. What brings you?”

“I wanna talk to you,” Micky said. Mike’s eyes said he was, in fact, doing exactly that. “Think we can have lunch?” The Sheraton had a built-in restaurant, which was a step up from the usual order-in that they could get at most of the hotels they stayed at. Even calling for room service often got something-or-other from a nearby takeout place instead of in-house. It seemed like a good way to get out of the hotel rooms and still avoid their usual adoring fans, too; teenage girls weren’t likely to be booking a room at The Sheraton, where it would cost them almost twenty dollars a night.

Mike lifted his eyebrows, in thought rather than surprise. He glanced at his watch.

“I’ll pay,” Micky threw in quickly, just in case that was building to an objection.

Mike gave him a soft kind of smile. “It’s comped, Mick.”

Micky grinned in return. “That’s my secret. And _you _think I’m not good with money.”

A chuckle. “Just let me finish up,” he said.

“Sure.”

“And answer me something.”

“Sure?” Micky repeated, uncertainly. The request sounded more severe than the rest of their banter.

“There a reason we can’t have this conversation here?” Mike asked, folding what was likely the only shirt he’d need to change into before they left. He put it in the drawer and turned his eyes back to Micky.

“You mean am I only willing to talk to you in public?” Micky returned.

Mike did something between a nod and a shrug, inclining his head towards his shoulder.

“No way. Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

He didn’t need to insult Mike to say ‘no’, but did so purposefully. It wasn’t out of cruelty. If Mike thought he was angling to avoid Mike’s temper, he figured that was a good way to prove he wasn’t.

It did seem to relax Mike a little, though that wasn’t what he commented on. Instead Mike said, “Twenty-two years old and you still get excited when you swear.”

It wasn’t even that Micky did it rarely, but he did do it with a little secret thrill—or at least he’d figured it was secret. “My dad used to get the belt out if I said ‘God’,” Micky returned with a smile, “Italians, man.”

Mike laughed. “Texans, too. My uncle’s that sort.” He shut the drawer, and together they walked out of the room.

“You gonna visit your family when we’re in Texas?”

“If I’ve got the time to go.”

“They won’t drive to see you?”

Mike shook his head. “Nothing said in person can’t be said over the telephone.”

“Well, sure,” Micky agreed. He knew Mike was talking on behalf of uncle and not for himself; Mike liked frivolous drives and would’ve happily made one with or without the incentive of family. “But talking’s only half the conversation. The rest’s in your eyes. And hands.”

And other things. He was aware of the fact that his and Mike’s shoulders bumped together as they walked. It wasn’t on purpose. But neither was it entirely accidental.

“Italians, man,” Mike said, echoing his words.

Micky’s brows furrowed, confused. “What?” he asked, but Mike didn’t answer. After a beat he worked it out as being on the stereotype of hand-talking. “Oh, har, har! _Fun_-ny.”

Mike smiled and ducked his head in a way that Micky probably would’ve considered shy from anyone else. He considered Mike introverted, but not shy. He wasn’t sure how to define that distinction. Either way, it was a smile meant for Mike himself, more than it was meant for him.

“You still have anyone in Texas?” Mike asked after a beat as they reached the end of the hallway.

Micky shook his head. “Most my mom’s family’s in California now. I got an aunt in Idaho. Iowa? One of those places. I’ve never seen her. She’s one of my dad’s sisters. She married a soldier to get out of Italy, but most of my dad’s family still lives there. I don’t know any of them.” A pause. “And it’d be a long drive from Texas, anyway,” he added, tying it back after realizing he had gotten off of the original subject a bit.

“Let’s you and me go to Italy after the tour,” Mike said.

The offer hitched Micky’s step, though he did his best to recover seamlessly. If it was a joke, it was another one he didn’t get. “Okay. But we gotta learn Italian.”

“We’ve got our eyes and our hands. We’ll learn a quarter Italian and we’ll understand seventy-five percent.”

_That_ was definitely a joke. But Micky still couldn’t nail down the initial offer. It felt like either a sincere suggestion or a trap. He figured it was the former only because he couldn’t work out what the ‘gotcha’ moment would be. “Let’s learn thirty-five percent Italian. My eyes are lousy.”

Mike stopped right as they were about to enter the dining area, so Micky stopped, too. Mike turned to him and held out his hand. “Deal,” he said, and they shook on it.

They sat down and picked up their menus. The both of them had always been steak-and-potato people, and they were both quick to order the ribeyes.

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of the ribeye,” said the waiter.

“T-bone?” Micky asked.

“We’re out of the T-bone.”

“Sirloin?”

“We’re out of the sirloin.”

That ran through all of the steak options.

“What about the chicken breast?” Micky asked.

“I’m sorry, but…” The waiter started. They stopped listening.

Micky and Mike looked at each other across the table. They communicated through lifted, amused eyebrows and quirked lips. Then they passed their menus over to the waiter. “Surprise us,” they said in unison, and it felt very much like a bit on their show. Micky bit his lip against a smile. It wasn’t the right time, to be thinking of how easy and familiar it was to be with Mike.

They waited until the waiter left, then Mike asked, “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

Micky breathed in deep through his nose. He hated the fear, the dread that coiled in his stomach and made him feel sick. Truly sick, hot and cold and close to throwing up. Most of the time youth made him, if not brave, then fearless. He’d had plenty of horrible situations in his life, even life-threatening ones, and he’d made it through unscathed. There was something to be said about that. He tried to tap into that part of himself the way he would if he was hired for a part—so often he acted a piece of himself, just not the whole. “I wanted to apologize,” he said. It came out nice and confident, and that relaxed him.

“All right. You’re forgiven,” Mike said.

Micky laughed, baffled. “Man, you don’t even know what for!”

“For yesterday,” Mike said, very certain.

“No,” Micky said. “Well, yeah. Yes, I’m sorry about yesterday, too. I’m kinda surprised you didn’t chew me out for it this morning.”

“I was going to,” Mike said. “Then I thought better of it.”

Micky frowned at that. Mike usually went with his first instinct when it came to criticism even if he had time to ‘ruminate’ on it—a word Mike cared for more than Micky did. Micky wasn’t quite up for forcing Mike into tearing into him, but he did open his mouth to question it--

They paused as the waiter returned to pour them a drink. The smell of beer made Micky a little sick again as he remembered the night before despite his lack of a hangover, but he was willing to take it. He’d never really part of those meetings where people drank and smoked and laughed in the middle of the day; despite it being typical and despite The Monkees being lauded for their zaniness, Bob and Bert and Donnie had only ever provided water or Cokes. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had a drink before two P.M….at least not on a working day. But he was more than willing to take the social lubrication right then. He took a drink.

“But don’t pull that shit again,” Mike added, waving a fork at him.

There was a threat attached to it, and it wasn’t an empty one.

“I won’t,” Micky agreed, unbothered. No, the threat wasn’t empty. But they both knew it might as well have been. He wasn’t going to do it again, which meant Mike wouldn’t have to follow through. He’d missed his chance to ask after Mike’s thoughts, so he said instead, “I heard Bill did a good job. I don’t want him goin’ after my gig.”

“He did a good job,” Mike agreed.

That stung just enough for Micky to want to change the subject back to the actual point. He was starting to say, “Anyway—”

When Mike managed to cut him off again. “But I wouldn’t care what you got up to if I thought Bill belonged up there.”

Micky let out a soft breath. “Thanks, babe.”

Mike nodded. “Anyway,” he prompted.

Micky paused in saying anything that time, taking another drink. He was usually aware of when Mike steered conversations. It wasn’t ever like Mike made a secret of doing it, and frankly Micky usually liked it. He didn’t much like leading conversations, and sometimes even used Mike as a crutch. But this time Micky had to think about it; about whether Mike was pushing it into a place Micky hadn’t been intending. About whether it was intentional or if it was just a side effect of when Mike being Mike. Maybe other people wouldn’t have even noticed Mike was guiding it, the way one might do to water by putting up dams or digging swales. He couldn’t see any other destination from where they’d started off, so he let the fact Mike had taken to controlling his discussion slide. “Anyway,” Micky said again, setting his glass down. “I’m sorry about that, but it’s not what I wanted to apologize for. I’m sorry about the other day. Um. Before Ric’s wedding, in my room. Y’know. The stuff we talked about.”

“There’s no reason for you to apologize for that.”

“No, there is. There is.”

“There’s not,” Mike said. Sternly, in a way that very often ended discussions.

It almost made Micky laugh. That was one path he hadn’t figured on Mike going to; just shutting the entire thing down.

Mike sighed and looked down at his own beer. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Any other time Micky would’ve been surprised. He might’ve even reveled in the surprise of it, of seeing Mike actually apologetic, contrite. Even if it was only a ‘_should be’_ and not an _‘I am’_. But he wasn’t surprised at all. He’d known from the start that Mike was sorry, and it wasn’t anything to take pleasure in. Micky shook his head. “I know what you’re sorry for and I don’t give a shit about it.”

“That’s a lie.”

Micky’s eye’s narrowed. “I’m not lying. I’m not saying you should go and do it to everyone. Some folks might get a hang up if you get rough like that. And _you_ got a hang up because you lost control and you hate that, man. There’s a lot to get hung up on. But _I’m_ not the one hung up on it.”

“Everything you’ve done since says different.”

Micky opened his mouth to snap back at that, but he saw the waiter coming back in his periphery. He snapped his mouth back shut like a bear trap instead, and they waited together in several seconds of silence until their plates were placed in front of them. He stared down at his food almost uncomprehendingly even after the waiter had left. He’d disrupted his train of thought too much to immediately get back to it, even when they didn’t have someone standing right beside them.

Mike cut into his chicken Cordon Bleu, and said, “Jesus Christ. Micky, get up, let’s go get some real food.”

Micky blinked, furrowed his brow, and finally took in exactly what they were given. His own dinner was a wilted salad, and Mike’s was drowned in curdled sauce, the cut chicken weeping water. Mike was already getting up. “Where’re we going?”

“First place we see,” Mike said. “I just need my wallet.”

Something about Mike offering to pay after he'd already offered got Micky back to where he’d wanted. “Hold it. Sit down a minute. Just be quiet and let me finish!”

They weren’t strong words all things considered. But they were demanding coming from him, and even more demanding when directed at Mike.

He and Mike stared at each other for a few lengthy seconds.

Micky had wanted to be a director for years. What he thought of at that moment was that he ought to stand. Even being as they were, Mike standing up, himself still seated, spoke to a power dynamic. Spoke to Mike holding something over him. If it were a movie, the camera would probably be angled even lower still, from the table itself maybe, and focused right on Mike’s face up above.

His muscles tightened to stand and try and level the playing field.

Before he could, Mike smiled, nodded, and sat back down. 

Micky didn’t think about whether or not that would’ve happened in the movies. Once again his train of thought had frozen, record-scratch. He _did_ think about whether Mike had been pushing and talking over him in hopes of getting him snappish. He furrowed his brow as he thought it over. Micky had never been a fan of mind games—not like that, anyway. He liked cerebral games; he thought he was good at chess, that kind of thing. And he also thought he was good at understanding people. But he’d never been able to combine the two like Mike could. No one had ever had to be ten steps into the conversation to work out what Micky was after.

He still couldn’t work out what Mike could gain from doing it, so he forced himself out of his own head.

“Look. I’m hung up, but not on that,” Micky reiterated, speaking clear and deliberate as he refocused. He reached across the table and grabbed Mike’s hand between both of his own. Mike let him, and didn’t even look down at the grip. Their gaze held solid across the table. “I’m just hung up on _you_, man.”

Micky didn’t get hit with the dizzying anxiety that he’d expected to get in admitting to it. Nor did he get the relief that sometimes came with putting your cards all out on the table. It was just a blank sort of a thing. The nice kind of blank, like sitting thoughtless out on a log in a forest, instead of the necessary, mind-preserving blank when shock shut you down after a horrific accident where realizing the severity would lead to death.

Mike didn’t ask for clarification, although it did seem to take him a couple of beats to piece it all together.

“I can’t say it back, Micky,” he said.

Mike’s fingers curled a bit, and Micky wondered if he was trying to tighten the grip or trying to pull away. And for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he found himself holding Mike’s words and actions up to the light.

This was one that didn’t feel hard to work out.

If Mike wanted away from him, he thought, he’d know it.

His own hands tightened a little around Mike’s. “Yeah, I know. I know you don’t—" 'Love me' caught in his throat, but the words weren't necessary. "I know. But I had to tell ya, ‘cause I’m sorry for making you think…I was mad, or scared, or whatever. I was just—” Lovesick, heartbroken, disappointed, sad, “Embarrassed.”

“Well….” Finally Mike’s eyes shifted from his, though Micky didn’t think it was on anything in particular. They were back on him soon enough. “I wouldn't have thought you were either of those things if I hadn't done something that might make you feel them. So I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.”

Micky smiled lopsidedly. “Deal,” he said. And that time Mike’s hand did move very deliberately between his own so they could once again shake to seal their agreement.

Mike nodded and took his hand back. “Now we can go get some real food?”

“Sure.”

“You ought to bring Davy down here tonight. He’ll blow his top,” Mike mused as he stood, looking down at their miserable meals.

Micky laughed. “Shit,” he said as he got up. He tried to ignore the fact that Mike again smiled a little at the enjoyment he got out of swearing. “Davy still won’t eat with me. Living together, he’d put the cereal box between us if I tried to have breakfast the same time as him. Or he’d make me turn my chair around so he could only see the back of my head.” He threw some cash down as a tip; his father had been a waiter for too long for him to be stingy towards their service for crummy food. “You should bring him, it’d be a gas.”

“I’ll take him,” Mike said agreeably as they started walking together. “I’ll tell him it’s got the Micky Dolenz seal of approval.”

“Great, make it so he won’t even eat in the same _state_ as me,” Micky grumped.

But he smiled as they walked side-by-side back to Mike’s room so he could grab his wallet. They were close the entire way. When Micky breathed in, he smelled Mike’s cologne and shampoo. He smelled masculine and feminine, if there was such a way for smells to be either. Micky found the definitions silly; he liked wearing blouses and ‘women’s clothes for their nice colors and they didn’t make him feel any differently than men’s clothes, but it was still how his mind separated things. It didn’t matter. Mike used the rough smelling cologne, the whiskey-woodsy type, but he used women’s hair products, floral and sweet.

It was a nice thing to breathe.


	19. July 22: Boston

Davy once again woke Micky on Saturday morning.

This time around, it involved crawling into bed with him and beating him about the head and shoulders.

“Help! Help! Fire! Rape!” Micky screeched, flailing his way across the bed.

Davy took a moment to explain his attack right before Micky flipped himself off the edge. “Mike told me it was your bright idea to eat at the Sheraton.”

“You mean you didn’t like it?” Micky asked. He was lucky that he was still a little tired despite his pummeling, because it made him sound a bit more earnest than he usually would have managed.

Davy raised a fist, threatening him, but just said, “Didn’t your father own a restaurant—”

“A few, yeah.”

“How do you have such low standards?”

“You just don’t appreciate a good _dive_,” Micky said, with a dramatic sigh.

Davy gave him one last, solid punch in the shoulder, then flopped into bed beside him. “Next time you recommend a ‘dive’, at least make sure they aren’t out of alcohol.”

“They had beer,” Micky offered. He thought so, anyway. It was always possible he and Mike had gotten the last of it.

“They had piss.”

Micky tipped his head and shrugged. He didn’t care a single bit about it tasted when he was drinking, though he did like a nice, expensive whiskey. “Tasted okay when me and Mike went,” he said

His and Davy’s eyes met over that. As realization dawned across Davy’s face, Micky’s grin widened.

“You _and_ Mike,” Davy said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement as it all came together. He grabbed Micky’s pillow and hit him twice more—a bit harder this time, though less painful all the same. “I’m so fucking happy to see you’ve patched it up! Thrilled! Means you won’t mind sharing a grave!”

They giggled and wrestled a bit, before Davy said, “The man from the newspaper should be here in a few minutes.”

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m goin’ back to bed,” Micky said, rolling over to do just that.

“I’m going to be calling my father. It’ll be Mike, doing the heavy lifting.”

He was saying it like a warning. A ‘you should get up’.

Micky didn’t suggest waking Peter up. Mike could be frustrating when left to his own devices, but Peter was a lateral move instead of a step up. He shrugged. “I’ll get up if he gets out of hand.”

That was a lie. Never minding the fact he could go his entire life without doing another interview, he’d rather let Mike piss Davy and Peter off than get involved in that; calming them down was easily ten times easier. Mike was hard to stop when he got going, and if he _was_ stopped then he’d be grumpy about it for days. No, he might listen in, but he was more likely to go back to sleep than do anything.

Davy knew it. He said, “You…” either _shit _or _git. _Micky hoped it was the latter. He was liking the word more and more.

They argued about it good-naturedly for a while longer. Micky’s words got increasingly muffled as he shoved his face deeper and deeper into the pillow, and Davy’s grew increasingly adult-rated and accent-heavy. Micky liked that, personally. He was a fan of Davy’s more colorful expressions and insults always sounded nicer with a dose a Brit-isms.

After a while of going back and forth, however, Davy stopped answering. Micky looked up, curious. Davy was sat up straight, looking at the door like a cat that heard a mouse running through a cupboard. “He’s here, I think.”

Micky craned his neck and listened hard. Davy was right, he thought. At the very least someone he didn’t know had entered the room next door that was being used as a communal space. He doubted it could be anyone else but someone with a reporter’s credentials—it was hard, getting all the way up to the twenty-seventh floor, without a badge. He heard the door shut and the rumbling of talking. Introductions, no doubt. He couldn’t make out any words distinctly, but he could recognize Mike’s voice saying a greeting, anyway. Twangy, a little nasal. Mike sounded deeper-pitched when there was a wall blocking the high noises. He could feel it striking deep in his chest, thrumming there, excitable, the way he felt riding a motorcycle. Maybe he did kind of want to go over there, just to listen in.

But he really did hate interviews.

“Go get’im, Dave,” Micky encouraged instead.

Davy might not miss talking to his father for anything, but neither would he miss the chance to make an entrance. He stood and adjusted himself. His hair was already tousled from rolling about in bed, but he took a moment to make it look properly unkempt. Likewise, he adjusted his tunic—a nice one, from India. He did his best to look beautifully bedraggled, like a movie star who had just woken up. He even gave a nice yawn as he left the room. He really wanted to make a _story_.

A brief moment of silence, and then….

“Oh, my,” Davy’s voice came clear, “Oh, hello! Hello, I love you all!”

Followed by screeching.

No wonder it was so clear, Micky realized. Davy must’ve been hung out the window, calling to their adoring crowd below.

Micky rolled his eyes fondly, then settled back to sleep.

+++

“Davy,” Mike said, “This is Ernie Santosuosso, from The Boston Globe.”

He had to say the last name very carefully and a little slow. It was the kind of word that would stop him up if he didn’t think it through.

“Very nice to meet you, mate, where are my manners?” Davy said happily, going over to shake Ernie’s hand after doing his very best to throw in a bit of showmanship. He looked to Mike then and laughed. “Look at the groovy tie he’s wearing,” he said, indicating Mike with his thumb, all while still shaking Ernie’s hand, “You know, I remember when Mike wouldn’t be caught wearing a tie.”

Mike fixed Davy with a stern look and said, “Ernie headed up the jazz festival that started here last year,” trying to stress the importance of an interview like this one. He put his attention on Ernie and added, “I read the review you put out for The Beatles last month. Great review, man, I dug it.”

Ernie was in his forties, or maybe a young fifty, Mike thought, though he couldn’t know for sure. But he knew that The Beatles had discussed him when they’d all sat and dinner together. That he was smart and respectful and went to their show, sitting close so he could hear it over the roaring crowd. In any case, there weren’t many middle-aged men who would push for and gush over music that was predominantly black, or predominantly long-haired. Ernie did. Had. This was the kind of interview that meant something. The kind of interview_er_ that took youths seriously. He almost wished that it had been Peter who had walked through the door instead of Davy. Davy put importance in publicity. Peter put importance in understanding. But he knew he would’ve regretted that if Peter had been the one to walk through the door.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Ernie said with a bright smile. “I’ve enjoyed being a part of musical history—in the way I can be, of course. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I’ll leave that to the professionals.” He moved the desk in the room, setting his tape recorder, notebook, and pencil down before he turned the chair around and sat. “But I can appreciate the music. Jazz, The Beatles, yourselves… Do you mind if I record?”

“No, sir, that’s fine by us,” Mike said.

Davy had to clear his throat to avoid laughing at Mike being so… respectful.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Ernie said as he got the recorder set up. “Sometimes being on tape ruins the story. Although I guess you guys are more used to being natural when you’re recorded. But it can be bad for us, too. It can turn journalists into stenographers, you know, writing down the subject’s words literally instead of using their journalistic voice. I know, I’ve seen it happen; I used to be a copy-editor until two years ago, before I got into this business.”

“We got into this about the same time, then, haven’t we?” Davy said cheerfully.

Ernie smiled. “I guess that’s true! Even five years ago it was a completely different scene. Do you think there would’ve been room for The Monkees in 1960?”

“You mean commercially viable?” Mike asked. In his estimation there had been similar sounds, somewhere, in a garage or likewise. There just hadn’t been many people around. If a tree’s cut down in a forest and no one’s there to hear it….

It seemed Ernie followed his train of thought. “Room on the radio,” he agreed.

Mike laughed, just a little. “If there’d been room for The Monkees in 1960, there would’ve been The Monkees in 1960. Under a different moniker, maybe. But Bob and Bert tried to get it goin’ in…1964, is that right?”

“I think so,” Davy said, cleaning under his middle fingernail with his thumb. He didn’t much care for this kind of conversation, because it could so easily lead to the fact that they were replaceable. That they were cogs in a machine that had been hand-chosen. Not that that wasn’t true; he was an actor and didn’t mind being hand-chosen. But Mike had a habit of making it into an ugly thing, to the press. The real problem was that it was mundane, friendly, until it wasn’t. A fine thing to be saying until Mike got a wild hair about it. It wasn’t an easy thing to corral, and he knew well enough why Micky had avoided it.

“Well they had their go at it in 1964 and no one bit. But then… maybe it was 1963. A Hard Day’s Night came out in ‘64. Anyway, then Bob had precedence. You need to have precedence. There couldn’t have been The Monkees without The Beatles. And there couldn’t have been The Beatles without Chuck Berry or Fats Domino, or Elvis. And there couldn’t have been Elvis without…it goes on and on. There’s got to be precedence. Maybe someday there’ll be someone that couldn’t have been without The Monkees. Like I told you before Davy came in, our sound wasn’t our sound for the first two records. But it is now, and we’d like to do something with that; we’ve tried to, with _Headquarters_. If we can take it further, we will.

Davy looked at Mike considerately and relaxed a bit. It seemed like it was going to be one of those days Mike took a more positive spin on things. Maybe he was more inclined, when they were talking to a man old enough to be their father instead of girls who could be their little sisters. Or maybe he was inclined because Ernie was a _respectful_ older man; one who saw value in what they were doing. Mike could be turned about pretty easily by the tone of reporters, in Davy’s estimation. They were lucky that the reporters who riled Mike didn’t do it on purpose. The papers could really have a field day with him if they were actually looking to do it.

“You’re in a bit of a tough spot, aren’t you?” Ernie asked.

“How do you mean?” Davy replied, quick as a flash. _That _was something that Mike could latch onto.

“Well, your audience is eleven, twelve, thirteen-year-olds,” Ernie said. “The Beatles’ is pretty young, too. So there’s an expectation of accessibility to both the young people of America and their parents, the people who’d probably be taking them to the concerts or buying their records. But at the same time there’s something of an expectation of counterculture. I mean, that is how your show was marketed. The casting call….” He paused then, to flip through his notebook, then read, “’Madness! Four insane boys. Must come down for interview. Some people are of the opinion that means—‘must come down’—that they were looking for boys who took drugs.”

“People say that?” Davy asked.

“Some people say that,” Ernie agreed.

“I wouldn’t know,” Davy said, sniffing, “I never heard anything about that. You know, I take my—I take my multivitamins. But I’m the only one of this lot who smokes. Cigarettes, mind; Mike’s got a sign on his car, ‘No Smoking’, doesn’t want it smelling like an ashtray. And Micky can’t stand the stuff, breaks out in hives.”

“So you’d say there’s no sex or drugs in the rock’n’roll?”

Mike smirked a little at the wordplay, but said, “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. I can say there haven’t been any hidden meanings in Monkees songs. I mean, Bobby and Tommy…Boyce and Hart have written most of our tunes and there’s no drugs in their lyrics. I’ve written some of our songs and there’s none in mine. Micky wrote one of the songs on our last album…um, on _Headquarters._ ‘Randy Scouse Git’, he wrote that and there’s no sex or drugs in that. Maybe the title; you’d know about that in England, but that was just something he heard on television. It’s all very literal. Sometimes it’s all too literal, flowery…. Um. I’ve heard rumors about plenty of our songs. But that’s all it is, rumors.

So many groups don't carry any mention of drugs or sex in their songs so that everybody's looking for it. So, eventually it does pop up. I won't deny that the drug theme doesn't exist. The truth is that young people are terrified of drugs and narcotics," Mike continued. He licked his lips and paused again. Davy hadn’t lied—Mike didn’t smoke, and he hated it. But he drank, and occasionally smoked weed. And Ritalin, he’d taken that plenty of times when he was feeling low or had the creative need—that was a narcotic. And he knew its benefits. And he knew how truly terrifying it could be. He tried not to think on it. He didn’t like living with any regrets, and he and Micky had had a good time after making up the day before. “LSD and pot are not narcotic in the broadest sense of the word. The point I'm trying to make is that kids nowadays are very much aware of what's happening with acid and marijuana. Many of them have taken them and from them they naturally form a frame of reference from which they can work."

Davy cut in there, slinging an arm around Mike’s shoulder for a moment. “The thing is there’s innocent explanations for all these hidden messages people are seeing. ‘Randy Scouse Git’—Mick doesn’t learn language before he uses it. He’s a brit mush-brained, but it wasn’t meant to be untoward. ‘Must come down for interview’, well, it was all private auditions, no waiting rooms, cattle calls or anything of the sort. We all met with Bert and Bob the same sort of way we’re meeting with you. Or take The Beatles. _Sergeant Pepper_, you know the song off there everyone’s making a fuss about. Made short, that’s LSD, innit? But that isn't LSD that the song was about. We talked to John Lennon who told us about 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'. John said his son drew a picture of a girl with stars. When John asked him whom it represented, the boy said, 'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds'. That’s all it was. Sometimes it’s only a little boy’s picture." Davy looked to his watch, pausing. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve scheduled a call to my father. Don’t get to see him much these days. Try to play nice, Mike.” He shook Ernie’s hand once more, then strolled off to make his call.

Ernie watched Davy leave for a moment, then turned his attention back to Mike. “So you think the worry over hidden messages is uncalled for?”

Mike shrugged. “I think the worry over any message is uncalled for. It doesn’t matter if it’s hidden or not. It doesn’t matter if it’s _there_ or not. People will make up their own interpretation for it. ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ – ‘oh, that’s LSD’, ‘oh, no, it’s a picture’. We know the meaning because John told us the meaning. But not everyone has that opportunity. So what’s that mean? Suppose someone listened to ‘I’m a Believer’ and decided it was about orgies—”

“I don’t think I can put this in the paper,” Ernie said, but he sounded amused.

Mike chuckled. “Decided it was about sex,” he corrected, though he doubted that this quote would make the cut at all. Which was just as well. The things he didn’t mind starting rumors about were the things he had call to. He didn’t have call to Neil’s song, or Tommy and Bobby’s. So he paused and turned it into his own song, “Suppose people started taking ‘Mary, Mary’ to be about marijuana. Most folks wouldn’t take it that way, and I didn’t write it that way. But music’s about the meaning to the artist and the meaning to the listener. It requires interpretation. If Gordon McLendon interpreted it as being about pot, then it’s about pot, and he could block it from air.”

“Have you had problems with censorship?”

Mike paused.

They did, didn’t they?

Lawyers and Don Kirshner, blocking their writing, picking their songs, and trying to give their music to The Wrecking Crew. But it so happened he and Peter cared more about playing their own music. Publicity agents thinking they shouldn’t be having interviews exactly like this one, though he didn’t think anything he’d said would get him in hot water this go around. But it so happened they couldn’t be blacklisted for that, not the way of most television stars. If management had their way, they wouldn’t have even said two words to Jimi despite him being an opening act; it just so happened Micky was pushier about being inclusionary than management could ever be at being exclusionary.

It so happened everything was censored.

They were all getting too bold to allow it.

“Not in that capacity,” Mike said, “Not with the radios. I think they probably let more of our music on. Compared to The Rolling Stones or someone like them.” He knew that McLendon got copies of the sheet music and lyrics to songs he played on the radio, and he’d heard that there’d been a bunch of kids, the pot-smoking, free-loving type, that were hired to pore over those lyrics to see if there were any codes. It seemed the sort of thing he’d hear about, from the press if from no one else, if The Monkees had gotten their records blocked from airing. He’d heard about it when ‘Randy Scouse Git’ had been momentarily stopped up from playing in England. And that song had done well for them, all things considered, so he didn’t think anyone on the radio was seeing it as obscene. 

“You know…” Ernie sat back and crossed his legs. “Despite the criticism, Gordon’s doing pretty well for himself. Pulse gave him Man of the Year this year, and he’s received a lot of accolades for how he’s curating the Top 40 to reach the biggest demographic. It’s very much a family affair now. Before this, grandmothers or grandchildren probably wouldn’t be listening to the same station as someone my age, for instance.”

It didn’t sound like a criticism or a fight, just a friendly discussion. Ernie was smiling a little.

Mike scoffed. “I know all about hitting the widest demographic. The Maverick and The Man with the Golden Ear— they’re both very good at hitting widest demographics.”

Ernie lifted his eyebrows that time. Taken aback by the venom in Mike’s voice, Mike assumed; he didn't take Gordon to be confused by his use of nicknames for either Gordon or Don Kirshner.

Mike continued, “Playing to the largest audience keeps an artist from playing to _their_ audience. Picasso isn’t for everyone, but his art means more to the people it speaks to than if he’d carried on how he did when his art was more accessible.”

“So you think precensorship of records shouldn’t be allowed?”

"I think it's the radio station's prerogative, but I have found in my travels that stations which do censor go way down in ratings, as early as a month afterward. I think it's foolish, this censoring. What happens is the stations are bound to rule out good stuff. They don't know all about it. McLendon is a good administrator but he's trying to second-guess the public.

I think it depends on the morality of the youngsters. Rock 'n' roll influences them. It's the most powerful political machine ever devised of the public's own making. The public dictates what rock will do. It stands strictly on the merits of the individual. Some songs have a good effect, some bad. But the individual can either accept or reject the song."

Room service knocked on the door then, and Mike called for them to come in. They wheeled it in on a cart that had a tablecloth laid across it rather than simply bringing in a tray; there wasn’t exactly a spread, but what was there wouldn’t have been easy to carry: an urn of coffee, two big, metal flasks of cocoa, a hunk of ham, and ice cream.

Ernie quirked an eyebrow at him. “All for you?”

“You’re welcome to it,” Mike said, though the answer was an implicit ‘yes’.

Ernie took the invitation and poured himself a cup of cocoa, cussing as it sloshed over the rim of his glass and onto the white tablecloth.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, pouring cocoa for himself and taking some ice cream, “It won’t even need to be laundered. We’ll tell them I spilled it and the hotel will sell it off.” He took the flask and spilled a bit of cocoa on the table, himself. “There.”

“Do you mind that?”

“The hotel selling it? I suppose not. It’s their property. I wouldn’t buy it, but there’s a market. Half the time things like that go for charity, anyway.” That was how it had been in North Carolina, though he’d heard only after the fact that their linens had probably pulled in several hundred dollars for a hospital. They’d been lauded for their philanthropy despite having nothing to do with it. It was discombobulating but not upsetting.

“I suppose I’ve just never considered anyone buying my tablecloths.”

Mike shrugged as he moved to sit down, to eat and drink. “It might upset some of the other guys. I wouldn’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever discussed that with them. I know there was a bit of an upset, when our hairstylist was selling clips of our hair. But that’s personal, that’s part of you. This isn’t—” Mike gestured around the room. “This doesn’t have anything to do with me. Everyone knows what they’re in for: me, the hotel folks, the kids buying things. I wouldn’t like it if they sold a tablecloth and said I used it when I hadn’t. I think there should be integrity about that. But I don’t mind it, if everyone’s honest.”

+++

Mike had to stop himself from knocking before going into Micky’s room. He hadn’t been in the habit of asking for permission before, and he didn’t want to start. It felt like he ought to, anyway, but he knew that Micky would give him hell for being so meek after they’d already sorted things out. Micky had never been the kind to hold grudges over something he said he’d gotten over.

“Do you want some ice cream? It’s a bit melty,” he said as he walked to the bed.

“Mm, I like melty,” Micky answered.

It confirmed what Mike had known without being aware that he’d known it at all—the fact that Micky had been awake. He realized only after Micky had answered how familiar he was, with the silence of his sleep compared to the silence of his waking.

Micky turned over, rolling to get out of his sheets and sit up in bed, in his boxers and one sock.

“Taking a cue from Peter?” Mike asked, indicating the one bare foot.

Micky made a slightly confused noise, then said, “Oh, no. I have it. I just lost it,” he waved a hand at the bedspread. His feet must’ve been chilly, though, because Mike knew even with shoes that he didn’t casually wear socks often. “I get kicky in my sleep.”

Mike passed the bowl over and sat in the chair at the writing-desk that all their rooms had. “You’re not so bad.”

Micky smiled. “I’m better when I got someone next to me.” A beat, then, “You could be next to me now. I don’t bite unless you ask nice.”

He looked at the open space in Micky’s bed. Sun-shined and occupied only by Micky’s sheets. And his wayward sock, maybe. It seemed domestically inviting.

Mike took the invitation, and Micky smiled at him big and squint-eyed.

“Good ice cream,” Micky said, taking another bite. It was only vanilla, but they both liked plain things. He took a spoonful and offered it to Mike, and though Mike had already had plenty, plus a big cup of hot chocolate, he took the bite.

Micky took the spoon back slow, with their eyes on each other.

Micky hummed and smiled just a little, in a way that made Mike’s heart stop up from something just to the left of fear. It seemed like understanding, and Mike decided he didn’t want to think on that too much: Mike liked to think he was smart—in a literal way, rather than the backhanded compliment of a way that he was the ‘Smart Monkee’ in columns. But part of being smart was knowing where other people were smarter. And he knew Micky understood something, emotionally, that was far past his reach.

“Did you give a good interview or are Mom and Dad gonna be disappointed when this prints?”

“Davy was there for most of the controversial.”

Micky lifted his eyebrows and tipped his head to look at Mike from underneath the hair he’d left curly today, a playful _Oh, really?_

Mike might have kissed him if not for the spoon in his mouth. He was glad not to have the option.

“About us not taking or singing about drugs,” Mike elaborated.

“Is _that _controversial?” Micky asked, laughing, a little squealing and high-pitched in his incredulity. “I’ll go smoke a joint so they don’t have to worry anymore.”

Mike laughed, too.

“I talked about Gordon McLendon—”

Micky blew a raspberry and gave a thumbs-down.

“About ‘Randy Scouse Git’—”

Micky smiled and turned it to a thumbs-up. Which was the only reason Mike had mentioned it. He didn’t think he’d said anything worthwhile on the song.

“My home life.”

“A car for every day of the week and a private jet in case my feet are too tired to work the pedals.” Micky supplied very dramatically, in a way that sounded more like Mr. Howell from _Gilligan's Island_ than Mike. “Right?”

“Right,” Mike agreed. Most reporters included his cars, and his house, and his boat and his jet. Which was fine. As far as the daily grind went, those were the things he most liked to talk about. “You should have participated. Ernie’s a nice guy. He’s going to be at the show tonight.”

“I’ll see him then,” Micky said.

“No, you won’t. You rabbit away from reporters every chance you get.”

Micky smiled. “That’s what I got you for, babe.”

He reached out and squished Mike’s cheeks fondly. His fingers were cold from holding the bowl. Mike grabbed his wrist and held it. He didn’t try to get away and his smile didn’t falter, just turned sly. It hadn’t been what Mike had expected. Maybe it hadn’t even been what Mike had wanted, instead after Micky to rabbit away from him, too, like Mike was a dog that had picked up his scent.

“You think reporters aren’t interested in what you have to say,” Mike said. “But you’ve got a lot of opinions. You should share them.”

He let Micky’s wrist go.

“Nah,” Micky said, dipping his spoon again. “That’s not my scene. But I like it, when you say real things instead of the stuff we’re supposed to say. I guess I shouldn’t encourage you. Peter and Davy hate it when you do that.”

“Fuck them.”

Micky snorted. He made a humming ‘yeah, exactly’ kind of a noise around his spoon. “That’s why they hate it. You fuck them _in_ the interviews sometimes, too. You can’t blame them for being on edge about it. You fuck me in those interviews sometimes, too,” he added almost as an afterthought.

Mike didn’t make a joke about their past rendezvous.

“Do I?” he asked instead. It wasn’t mocking. It was complete, sincere asking.

Micky chuckled, just a little, because he knew how sincere the question truly was. “Sometimes,” he said. He spun around on his rear so that he could lay down again. He put his head on Mike’s lap and looked up at him. “I’d be madder with you if I didn’t see the full picture. But I know what you mean. I know where your head’s at with it. Peter and Davy know where it is, too.” He paused and said, “But nothing you say’ll ever be the worst thing that’s said about me in the paper. It might be, to Peter.” He could have said ‘and Davy’, but frankly Davy only cared about Mike’s comments to anyone, press or otherwise, now that Donnie had been fired. Worse now that Donnie left Columbia altogether and was suing for millions. Peter cared about looking like a musician. Davy cared about looking a professional. Micky cared about being a professional, too, but he thought he could do that with or without Mike’s influence in the matter. In his estimation it was treating people well in the day-to-day that mattered more than what the press had to say.

“I never set out to insult you.”

“I know,” Micky said. He was doing pretty good getting these almost-apologies from Mike this week. “Like I said, I _like_ those interviews. I couldn’t put most the things you say any better, anyway.”

“Let me know if you think of something.”

“Sure.” He took another bite of ice cream. It was melting quite a bit now, and the angle was strange. It dripped on his skin as he moved the spoon. Micky shaved for the show, to be more accessible when he was on the beach, shirtless; a request Mike had always refused. His hair had grown back, since being on tour.

Mike tipped his eyes up to the ceiling to avoid thinking on those things too much. “I talked about our movie.”

Micky giggled. “Not much to talk about,” he said.

Really there wasn’t. There wasn’t a title, there wasn’t a plot, and the only actors were The Monkees.

“They want us to do a bit on air when we get to Minnesota, maybe we can start working on our scripting skills.”

“You and me? Sounds fun,” Micky agreed chipperly. “You wanna write like, a Monkees bit? A show bit? I always thought you should write an episode, you’re funny.”

“No, I want to do something different. It’ll be so early no kids’ll be listening, anyway.”

“So, something grown-up?”

‘Grown-up’ wasn’t exactly how Mike would have put it. ‘Grown-up’ sounded ironically a bit childish. But he said, “Yes.”

“So, like, hookers and blow?”

Mike chuckled. “Something like that,” he said. He almost wanted to include exactly that.

It was what he wanted from the movie, too, and he hoped Micky would follow him with that vision. They’d all been excited to start working on the film, even though the idea of it was just a seed. Something that might not even happen; even the thought of getting started on it was months and months away. But it sounded like an opportunity.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a comedy at all.

Maybe it would be something not for children at all.

Maybe something that didn't appeal to the masses.


	20. July 24-26, Pennsylvania and New York

A brick was thrown early Saturday morning.

Peter and Mike saw what was going on in Detroit right away. Of course, their ‘right away’ was several hours behind those who worked graveyard shifts. The Monkees had all gone to sleep just before the whole thing started, and most of them had stayed that way through the first rumblings of reporting on television. Still, three or four hours past the onset and Peter watched it unfold as he did yoga. Mike heard about it on the radio while he brushed his hair. That was the most any of them had before Ward was calling them into a meeting.

Ward half-explained the entire thing as they walked to a conference room in the hotel, just a big oval table, a lot of chairs, and a speaker phone. There were already several people sat all around the table, but Micky was still somewhere between awake and asleep when they were dragged into the room all together and would’ve been hard pressed to list them all after the fact. “We’ve got Mister…. from Detroit on speaker,” said Ward.

There was a name there, and that name probably meant something. Indicated some authority. But even after Micky said, “Huh? Who?” and Ward repeated it, he didn’t make it out. He decided it didn’t matter, flopped down into a seat, shut his eyes, and let his chin rest against his chest.

Mike squeezed his leg and said, “Wake up,” right in his ear at the same time Ward was telling Mr. Whoever they were all present and ready. Micky tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. His eyes stayed open that way, at least.

“All right. What day were you supposed to be here to play?” asked Mr. Whoever, buzzy over the speaker.

“The 29th,” said Mike and Ward at the exact same moment. There was a beat of silence where Micky figured they must’ve looked at each other before Mike decided to defer to Ward’s role as manager. Which wasn’t too surprising even with Mike being such a control freak. Ward was nice, close-ish to their age, and rallied for most of Mike’s musical causes. That got a lot of leeway. “July 29th,” Ward repeated, “We’re playing Olympia Stadium at seven-thirty P.M.”

“We need to reschedule,” said Mr. Whoever.

“Why’s that?” Davy asked. It was hard to tell if he was trying to carry over the speaker or not. His regular everyday voice carried on its own.

“There was a demonstration this morning,” Peter said.

“A riot started at three-fifteen A.M. It’s still on-going,” Mr. Whoever said.

Micky hated meetings. He hated speakerphone meetings even more. There was always more talking-over. He rolled his head back to looking upright, popping his neck about a dozen different ways in the rotation. There was some overlapping, ping-ponging discussion between far too many people for a minute or two that served only in Micky getting the gist of what was going on, a bare bones thing that was cobbled together from words he could pick out, like he’d eavesdropped on an entire crowd of people.

“You don’t think it will be resolved in a week?” Mike asked.

Peter laughed humorlessly. “These injustices will take decades to resolve.”

“Peter, I’m not rescheduling for 1986,” said Mike.

Micky snickered.

Peter did not. “We should go on the 29th if we can. We can do a showing of support, like we did in California for Mick Jagger or—”

“You can’t come on the 29th. If you come down here showing support—” Mr. Whoever started

“We’re showing Freedom Rides during our concerts, it would be very hypocritical of us—” Peter continued.

Micky had the idea that Mr. Whoever used some very strong language there, either against Peter or the black Americans. Or both. He could barely make out either of them. They got there in the end, though, because Mr. Whoever waited for Peter to finish up his rant before he said again, much more clearly this time, “If you come down here on the 29th, we might not have the men to afford you police protection. And if you come down here supporting the rioters, you can’t expect the protection even if we give you the manpower.”

It was more genuine bewilderment than Peter’s righteous anger that had Micky saying, “Of course we can, it’s their job. They can’t _not_ protect us because of our opinions.”

Mr. Whoever’s sigh said he was just as angry as Peter was. “Sure, kid, come down here and see what happens.”

Micky’s strength had never been off-the-cuff rebuttals, at least not to people he didn’t know. But Mike picked up for him and said, “Y’know, for that to be a threat, Mick’d have to be the one who stands to look bad. Maybe this is why the folks in your town don’t like your police much.”

“All right,” said Davy, very loud and clear, “You’re all raving. Let’s let Ward do the talking before we say something we regret.” His sour look was hyper-focused on Micky, and Micky knew why; Davy expected and was sick of sarcastic comments from Mike. He also expected and was a little sick of political comments from Peter. Frankly he also probably expected Micky to be a little baffled, a little overly-earnest, but not in a way that was combative.

Micky rolled his eyes, more at the situation than Davy, though he knew it got under Davy’s skin anyway. He folded his arms and went back to looking at the ceiling.

“When do you have time?” asked Mr. Whoever, “I don’t want anyone down here for a week, if we can help it.”

“A week,” Ward repeated. He did some math that was half-mental and half said out loud. After a moment, he said, “We can make it on August thirteenth. But it can’t be at seven-thirty. Between coming in from Alabama and going to Tennessee, that’s about eight hours of flying.”

That was pretty quick math on Ward’s part, Micky thought. He was lousy at doing math in his head, though he’d always been good at it when given a pen and paper.

“All right,” said Mr. Whoever. “Five?”

“Any earlier?”

“Three-thirty?”

“Three-thirty,” Ward agreed, writing it down. They scheduled a time to call back to solidify the plans, then said their goodbyes.

+++

If there was one good thing to be said of it all, it was that they were all on the same page politically speaking. Politics might have been divisive as a whole, but the four of them almost always agreed if only by measures. Peter was the leader of these kinds of discourses, and Micky thought he and Peter had them most often. In part this was because he was less likely to tell Peter to shut up than Mike was, and he was also less likely to persistently redirect than Davy was. His own method of getting Peter off tracks he’d gotten stuck on was to simply nod curtly, say, “Mmm-hmm. Oh. Yeah. Right. That’s great, Pete.” Until Peter got on a different topic all by himself. This often meant that the conversation wasn’t cut short at all. Peter was never quick to catch on to the superficially-polite acts of disinterest that were meant to be conversation killers.

Not that Micky didn’t understand that. He’d been told he had a habit of talking right over people when he got on something he cared about, too.

And besides, sometimes Micky ended up finding value in what Peter was saying. Maybe Micky wasn’t ever going to sell all his stuff like Peter had started to do, but he was at the least starting to come around to the idea of voting being worthwhile. He’d also started to appreciate civil disobedience, and sometimes not-so-civil disobedience, that he thought he would have always been a little disgusted by if he hadn’t heard Peter’s thoughts on it. He’d grown up thinking the entire system was a crock. So did Peter—the difference was how much they thought the common person would be able to change the crock.

Of course, that wasn’t anything interesting.

He and Peter had been talking politics off and on for the better part of two years. The Detroit Riots were new only in name, not in their opinions on the underlying problems.

What was interesting, at least to Micky, was that for that entire day, Mike and Peter got on like gangbusters. Maybe that shouldn’t have been surprising; Mike and Peter had been close enough when the TV show had first gotten picked up. If they hadn’t ever tried to be Real Musicians, Micky figured they would have kept on that way. But they’d always had different tastes in music, and somehow that had been enough to devolve their friendship spectacularly.

If Micky had been in the argument, maybe he could have seen nuance to it. Some shade-of-gray in between. But as an outsider to the whole thing, he figured Mike and Peter were both all-or-nothing black-and-white people. He’d play mediator when he had to, but it had gotten to the point that he felt like if Peter said the sky was blue, Mike would say it was yellow just to piss him off.

He knew that Mike tried to avoid talking politics with Peter. And he knew that it was because Mike felt that Peter tried to bait him with the issues. Tried to lead Mike along with things he agreed with until he didn’t agree anymore, then pounced on that disagreement like it undermined all the common ground.

“I don’t think he’s trying to do that,” Micky had said, but he had to say it in a careful sort of way like that because he knew what Mike meant. Peter was the kind of person his mom would call ‘learn-_ed’. _Peter was well-read and had no problem using that to his advantage. He could quote people at ease, and even if Micky found his personal opinion well-based, it was easy to feel stupid when someone could throw Gandhi, Einstein, and Shakespeare around in the same sentence. The thing of it was, Mike and Davy both could make him feel pretty stupid, too, even without leaning on quotes from world leaders or gurus. And if he had to pick who was doing it on purpose, his first guess wouldn’t be Peter.

But he knew, anyway, that Peter made Mike feel like a country bumpkin even if Mike never said so outright. So it was surprising when they all left the meeting together and went straight to one of their rooms, that Mike and Peter started to discuss it. All of it. Politics, religion, and all sorts of things that polite company didn’t tend to broach.

“Traditional western religion started to feel too—too hypocritical. You know what I’m saying? A lot of blessings and wanting equality, but being--- infuriated, when the people who aren’t equal try to be. Is that, do you ever have trouble reconciling your beliefs with your beliefs? I mean, your Christian Science with your moral compass,” Peter said, speaking very quickly, in the kind of way Micky often did himself. The way people did when they were used to being talked over.

Mike shook his head. “God is part of my moral compass, Peter,” he said. He didn’t seem angry in saying it, though, and when Peter held out a spliff, Mike took it and took a hit. A small hit, like maybe it would count less, but a hit nonetheless. “I can’t speak for Catholics or Presbyterians, or any of them—What do you think, Micky?”

Micky looked up fast, like he was called on in class while he’d been napping on his desk. “I’m none of that,” he said. He was agnostic probably, atheist maybe, ever since his dad had died unceremoniously and all alone. “But, uh—My dad was Catholic, and he woulda been kicked back to Italy if he didn’t speak good English—”

“Christ, he’d have to be better than you, at least,” Davy threw in, and Micky grinned.

“And most the Indians on my mom’s side don’t know Chickasaw ‘cause of Americans, so I think, I think—I mean, I gotta—” he found himself playing with his fingers and talking fast, even though he knew without a doubt that the entire band agreed with him, “I gotta side with the guys that’ve been kicked around. I dunno if that’s got somethin’ to do with being Catholic. Or with not being Catholic. My mom’ll side with them, she’s Catholic.”

He smiled a little and it felt almost apologetic, though he didn’t know what for. Because it was a rambling nothing of an opinion, maybe. Mike smiled back at him, and it felt a lot like when he did _The Crucible_ in high school, looked out, and saw his family in the audience.

Mike continued rather than try and drag him further into the conversation. “Christian Scientists are the same way. If they don’t think there’s a place for what’s going on in Detroit, they’re misinterpreting. There’s people who think I can’t drink coffee, or tea, because Mary Baker Eddy didn’t drink it. But when she had people over, she’d offer it to them. She wasn’t against coffee, she was against excesses. If people think I should feel better than blacks or Indians or _any_ body that’s on them. She said otherwise, and I agree with her.”

“Did she?” Peter asked. He leaned forward a little and looked curious. “What did she say?”

“No inherent qualities of race exist. Banish the lie from your mind or it will harm you,” Mike said. And maybe that was why he wasn’t minding the conversation, Micky thought. Because Mike had his own quotes about this. Peter had taken almost a requisite interest in the standard religions, the things like Catholicism, things that read straight from the Bible. But he’d never cared about Christian Science, and he’d never had to follow it past thinking it supported all the ways he found Mike annoying. “There’s gonna be a lot of people who say what’s going on in Detroit is because blacks are violent and mean. But anyone who says that isn’t a Christian Scientist. If you follow what’s taught, then you know that those riots are because of the oppressors, not the oppressed.”

“And you agree, we ought to say something? We ought to take a stand?”

Mike considered that. “You mean to the papers?”

“Yes.”

“I’m no political activist. But—"

Micky was feeling ridiculously fond watching Mike, listening to him talk. If they were alone he might have even said so, but his brain switched tracks when Davy let out a loud breath, got up, and left the room. Peter didn’t seem to notice, too engrossed in his discussion, and Mike—well. Mike probably noticed, but he rarely cared about smoothing bristled feelings.

Micky got up and followed after.

Usually when Davy smoked somewhere even marginally public, it was a cigarette. But this time it was a joint, and that suited Micky just fine. It meant when Davy offered to share, he took it.

“I don’t disagree with Mike,” Davy said, a little stiffly, after a moment of silence together. “Philosophically, what have you.”

“I know,” Micky said, “So what’s got you so cranky?”

“I’m tired of him running his mouth. The way he does it…. You’re starting to do it, too. But at least you’ve got some tact. _Usually_,” he added, clearly meaning their meeting. He huffed a laugh. “Always with important people when you fuck it up.” And that time, he clearly meant giving Donnie a Coca-Cola shower. “But Mike wouldn’t know tact if it hit ‘im in his twang. I know you think it’s funny when he pops off—”

Micky lifted his shoulders and his eyebrows, conceding that. He did, usually. And if he didn’t, he often felt a bit of pride.

“I’d think it was funny, too, if it was just his ass on the line.”

Micky dipped his head and sucked his lips in, trying not to find it funny how Davy said ‘ass’. He could tell Davy had said it, actually, the American way. But his accent had thrown an ‘r’ in all the same. 

Micky passed the joint back over and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from taking it back, trying to sober up enough to get serious fast.

“We’re circling the drain, Mick. We need to be professionals, right?”

“Aw…I dunno. I don’t think Mike’s that unprofessional….”

Davy shot him a sharp sort of look. Wounded, sad, and angry all in one go. “You were agreeing we ought to reel him in, when we were in California.”

Micky couldn’t remember if he’d agreed to that or not. He tried very hard _not_ to agree to things like that. He remembered agreeing to back Mike’s ideas, in California. But he would’ve probably backed Davy in a general sort of way, too. It hadn’t occurred to him that that was playing two different teams. He stayed quiet.

“You’ve been up his ass this whole tour.”

That time when Micky giggled, it wasn’t at the pronunciation. He swallowed it and coughed, shaking his head. “No, I haven’t,” he said, scrubbing at his face with one hand, almost as though to wake himself up.

Maybe Davy was a little off, too, because he gave a couple short huffs of laughter. But then he sighed and leaned against the wall. His eyes looked glassy under the fluorescents, and Micky couldn’t work out if it was weed or emotion that had gotten to him. “Every day I wake up thinking it’ll be the last.”

“That’s pretty doom-and-gloom of you, Jones. Where’re the birds and the flowers and the big sunny smile? Gotta smile!” Micky smiled wide then lifted both hands with fingers spread wide, thumbs in the apples of his cheeks, the sunny gesticulation that made him think of Broadway or Shirley Temple, neither for any particular reason.

Davy laughed again, just a little, and Micky latched onto it:

“There it is! There’s our sex symbol! That’s the face that launched a thousand unwed mothers!”

“Now, don ’t you go spreading that rumor about!”

“Oh, no, nononono, never, never. Our Davy Jones is saving himself for marriage. A virgin, but amazing in the sack.”

“There you go.” Davy’s smile weakened just a little, and he said, “I s’pose I’ll feel better once Kirshner’s out of the picture.”

He was, but wasn’t, at the moment. Donnie’s lawsuit had been known to them for a while, but it was only just starting to make it out into the papers. Micky didn’t care much about that. The one good thing about making a pittance off their own music was that nothing Donnie won would come out of his pocket. “It’ll be better soon, babe,” Micky assured. He didn’t know whether he believed that or not. “We’re on our way up!”

Davy let out an unamused laugh. “That’s not what the numbers say.”

“It’s not my job to worry about the numbers.”

“No,” Davy agreed, “It was Kirshner’s.”

Micky floundered a second at that, but then said, “And Bert’s, and Bob’s, and a million other people, but not me or you.”

“You or me,” Davy said, and maybe it actually was meant to correct his grammar, but Micky figured it was an Abbott and Costello type bit.

“That’s what I said.”

They chuckled a little, together.

“Look on the bright side,” Micky continued, “Mike and Peter are getting along.”

Davy huffed. “This your first day? That’s not a bright side.”

“I like it when they make friends,” Micky said. He went ahead and took the blunt back, now that it seemed like he’d staved off an actual, serious conversation. A moment of very sudden introspection made him wonder if he ought to do that, if he was being a good friend by steering Davy off whatever deep, sad thing he’d been thinking of instead of careening through it. But Davy did that, too, and he considered Davy a very good friend. “They’re cute together.”

“Sure,” Davy said, all sarcasm and lifted eyebrows. “Buddy-buddy for a week and two cats in a sack for three months. Adorable.”

“I like cats,” Micky offered with a weak shrug, and Davy snorted. Davy’s comment did give him an idea, though, and he said, “It’s a drag we can’t lock them in there. They’d have to get along then. Or kill each other.”

A pause and, just like a scene on the show, they looked at each other with matching grins. They zipped off to Davy’s room, returning with a chair to shove up under the doorknob.

They went back to Davy’s room, still laughing to themselves. By the time morning came around, they’d forgotten all about blocking the door.

+++

They were officially told not to say anything more about Detroit until they got back from their tour once word had gotten back to Bob and Bert about how the phone conference had gone. There was, however, a promise that it would be discussed under Bob and Bert’s control, at the insistence of Mike and Peter. Mike seemed satisfied with that answer. He was usually satisfied with what Bob and Bert had to say, anyway. Mike liked them—in fact he loved them, and often talked up how smart and funny they were. Peter didn’t love them and might not have even liked them. At least he never talked about them being either smart or funny. He’d once called them ‘clever’ to Micky, but it wasn’t a compliment. It was the same way Peter called Mike ‘clever’. He meant it like those fables about the clever fox or coyote. The grasshopper who had conned away all the ants’ food. Manipulative, predatory.

Still, Peter didn’t argue with them. He didn’t have the room to. Mike said, ‘You got it,’, Micky immediately followed Mike’s assessment, and Davy was outright ecstatic that no one was going to be running their mouths until it could become a professionally edited statement.

It was almost funny, to be explicitly banned from saying something. They were generally banned from saying a lot of things. They knew they weren’t to discuss the war. Even when Micky had missed drafting by the skin of his teeth, he wasn’t the one to talk about it. Bob or Bert or someone had put out an announcement that his bad leg had kept him out. They knew that wasn’t the reason, but maybe it made him look less like he was dodging than being too skinny did.

The Monkees also knew they weren’t meant to discuss politics. Not in any real, legitimate kind of a way. And they probably weren’t supposed to talk religion. The closest anyone had come to that was Mike, and that only came down to acknowledging he _had_ a religion at all. And on occasion he’d thank God as a musical inspiration or say that he felt ‘blessed’. But even though Christian Science was a bit particular, Christian-anything was a safe bet for their crowd. No one was going to send angry letters like they would over Peter saying ‘Hare Krishna’. At least Micky didn’t think so. They’d all gotten heartbroken, distraught mail over the four of them growing beards while recording Headquarters, so maybe even normal-everyday things were able to upset their fans.

Even with knowing they weren’t to discuss these things, they were rarely told outright they couldn’t. That wasn’t their management’s style. No, instead, the reporters would come up to try and get an interview and be told they had to wait. Or be told The Monkees were altogether unavailable. This was almost never true. When the show had started, it had been a lie to make them seem more popular, a hot commodity. Now it was a lie to keep them out of trouble.

Ironically enough it led to pissed off reporters writing articles about what big-headed divas they were. That, however, wasn’t the kind of bad press that concerned their management. That only said bad things about them as people, not about their brand.

Maybe Micky didn’t like Bob and Bert much, either. He didn’t think of them very often; he didn’t go to their homes like Mike did, and he tried not to think people were mean or heartless or conniving.

He considered it on their drive to the show. By the time he stepped on stage he’d stopped caring, and by the time they were back in the car on their way to New York, he’d forgotten about the thought altogether.

+++

Mike opened up his door and asked, “Where do you want to be right now, out of anyplace on earth?”

“What, no hello?”

“Some other time.”

The answer was ‘home’, but that wasn’t an interesting answer. “The Playboy Mansion.”

“Okay. But you won’t fill out the uniform.”

“I’ll order chicken cutlets from room service,” Micky responded to the banter, before saying, “What do you _mean _ ‘okay’?”

Mike didn’t answer that, and instead said, “The rest of us are going out, do you want to join us?”

“We’re pretty far from California,” Micky said, confused, because it wouldn’t actually be out of the question for Mike to drive them out to the Playboy Mansion that night. He knew they couldn’t hack it through driving, but—well, Mike had a pilot’s license. So it wasn’t out of the question.

“Yes or no?”

“Yeah. Yes, yes!” Micky said, hopping up to his feet to scramble into his shoes.

Mike had a smile that he was trying to hide, sucking his lips into his mouth and looking away from Micky altogether. Micky was just a little too enthused to notice.

Mike wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him down the hall to where Davy and Peter were waiting.

They were not on their way to the Playboy Mansion. He could have figured that out on his own even without the fact security came to escort them, but, well….There were worse things than wishful thinking. New York had some great nightclubs, so it was only a little disappointing.

The real disappointment came getting out of the car and walking across the street to the nightclub.

Three girls who saw them shouted loudly. One called out, “Hey, it’s The Monkees!”

It was hard to tell if that was a gag—a joke on their theme—or just a natural exclamation. “You want an autograph?” Davy called back.

“Are the real musicians here? I’ll take _their_ autographs!” one shouted.

“Or The Beatles!” yelled another.

The girls kept riffing. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising.

Or maybe The Monkees should have at least had a response to shoot back with. But then security was rushing them the rest of the way inside.

It wasn’t anything they hadn’t heard before. That didn’t make it sting any less.

“Don’t worry about it, guys,” Peter said.

“What, me worry?” Micky asked.

“You look better, letting your hair go curly, Neuman,” Davy replied, and they chuckled a bit as they went to get a drink.

Mike didn’t answer. He went in a different direction entirely, to drink alone.

+++

It was a while before Micky decided to go over and plop himself down beside Mike at the bar.

“You’re really in a pissy mood, huh?”

“What gives you that idea?”

Mike’s voice was rough, but Micky figured that was for show, to lean into the whole thing. Micky smiled, “It’s a day that ends in ‘Y’.”

Mike smiled back, but didn’t say anything. “Davy says you oughta get laid,” Micky added.

“Did you come over here to gossip? I heard Bill’s buying a fox.”

“To compete with John,” Micky guessed, even though he knew Mike was joking.

“Right.”

“Well, you should buy something, too. A drink for a lovely lady.”

“Flawless segue.”

Micky snickered. “Man, y’know anyone here’d go home with you,” Mike made a noise at that, and Micky had a guess that it was at calling the hotel ‘home’ rather than disbelieving the statement. “Just find a nice girl--- there! She’s cute.”

“It’s not polite to point, Mick,” Mike said, without looking, just seeing Micky’s hand go up in his peripheral while he took a sip from his own drink.

Micky looked side-to-side, some mess of looking between his hand, the girl, and Mike, several times, then lowered it with an almost-bashful raise of his eyebrows to acknowledge Mike was right. Still, he continued, “And talk yourself up a little. She’d beg to suck you off, man.”

Mike laughed to himself, not explaining to Micky what was funny—that that was even ruder than pointing. He didn’t answer Micky at all. Instead he asked the bartender once he came back around, “Can I get a drink for my friend? Whiskey, no ice.”

It took no time at all for the drink to find its place in front of Micky.

Micky let out a huff of air. He watched Mike closely. Mike didn’t look at him for a second before saying, “I’m one of The Monkees. The one that doesn’t win any of those ‘whose your favorite Monkee?’ contests. But I got more money than them ‘cause I write songs. And I got the biggest dick. And, hell, I know you’re goin’ to the same hotel I am.”

“That’s your proposition?” Micky asked, chewing on his cheeks to keep from laughing but giggling a bit anyway.

“Yes or no?”

“I’m not the begging type like she is,” Micky warned, leaning in close, eyes gesturing to where the girl had been, though she wasn’t there any longer.

“That’s a lie.”

Micky’s grin widened. “You’re right,” he said. Mike had said his part low enough, but his voice always carried. So he pressed his mouth against Mike’s ear and said, “_Please_ let me suck you off.”

Mike looked at him then. It felt like a long time spent not looking. Now that their eyes had met, he could tell Mike wanted to kiss him. He’d known Mike had wanted to fuck him. Even when they’d been avoiding each other he’d known he could get Mike back into bed with him if he put his mind to it. But he shouldn’t have put his mind to it. Ric was right that he was so, so stupid when he was hung up on someone. And Ric was also right that if he _had_ to get hung up, it should at least be on someone he wasn’t contractually obligated to see when things went sour. **If** things went sour.

Micky tossed his drink back and led the way out of the lounge. Mike followed suit. If he was worried about seeming conspicuous, he didn’t act it.

They kissed in the doorway of Mike’s room, Micky wrapping his arms over Mike’s shoulders as Mike kicked the door closed. Once more Micky wished he could keep from smiling. He wished he had any kind of poker face at all. It was never a bad thing to be excited by sex, but maybe it was, to be equally excited by the kissing. He knew what this was even without Mike saying anything of it. He knew it was sex, _just_ sex. He knew Mike didn't want the mess of emotions. Mike picking him instead of those girls wasn't in the name of romance. Mike needed a win. Mike needed to feel good. Mike--

Mike smiled back at him once they parted and the worry ebbed. It felt like a treat, when Mike smiled, or when he laughed. With teeth and everything. It was full of character. Micky wondered if he’d had to talk about it during the interview-- Bob and Bert hadn’t wanted any ugly smiles. Always presentable. Always attractive. Always conforming even when nonconforming. He’d seen Mike’s screen test, and as he got into bed he tried to remember if Mike had smiled, crooked tooth showing.

“You want some mood music?” Mike asked, breaking Micky’s concentration.

He was already walking that way instead of joining Micky on the bed.

They’d listened to music together so often that Micky couldn’t remember if they’d done so like this, with this goal. He couldn’t recall playing anything for Mike in his own room. Maybe he’d left the radio on sometimes when they were in bed together, but he couldn’t remember any records. He wondered if there was a reason that they hadn’t. Or maybe a reason that they were, now. The four of them as a group listened to music often, but he and Mike were different. The music that talked to their souls was the same. That hit differently. When he and Peter had seen Jimi perform live and heard him play for the first time, Peter hadn’t gotten it, didn’t get it until Jimi was already working with them. Mike had heard Jimi for the first play through a ‘you’ve got to hear this’ bootleg recording, and he hadn’t needed any convincing to be struck dumb that Micky had managed to get _that guy_ as an opener. Sex or not, Mike’s heart heard what his did.

Did that matter?

“Sure, who’ve you got?”

Mike held up a few albums. Micky had trouble reading them, but he recognized the covers. _Out of our Heads, Help!, The New Look, _something by John Lee Hooker; he recognized the face on the cover, but couldn’t place the album, _The Soul of a City Boy_, and _Orange Blossom Special_.

Micky smiled at the selection, few of which screamed ‘sex’ to him, though he’d happily have any as background noise. Well, almost ‘any’. “No Beatles or Stones, man. Unless I can tell them you fucked me while we listened to ‘em, next time we hang out.” He unbuttoned his shirt as he talked, though he didn’t remove it, just let it hang open wide as he laid back propped on his elbows.

“I don’t think Mick would mind it,” Mike said, putting all but one of the records down.

Even though he’d been the one to bring up The Rolling Stones, the name still made Micky take pause for a second. He’d never been the only ‘Michael’ or ‘George’, but he’d almost always been the only ‘Mick’. And he’d always turn if Mike said the name. Or maybe it was the alcohol that made him feel like he had that space reserved in Mike’s mouth, though he felt only buzzy. “He’d want to join,” he agreed, once his brain caught up.

Mike turned to him right after he set the needle down. Their eyes met and the crackles and pops felt like electricity instead of just surface noise that took up the space before the music started.

Micky didn’t sit up, but craned his neck out, catching Mike’s mouth with his the second that he was able.

Mike’s hand was hot slipping under his shirt, but it made him shiver all the same.

They kissed and touched without saying anything more to each other. It wasn’t very often that Micky did that, with Mike or anyone else. He liked talking almost as much as he did kissing. He liked talking to Mike even more. And it was always so easy to just say…something, some acknowledgement, when so close to someone. This time, however, they spent several minutes without saying a word, letting Fontella Bass do all the talking as they undressed.

It was easier for Micky to not want to say anything when he took Mike’s cock into his mouth. Mike wasn’t all that loud during sex, but the noises he made were nice. The way his muscles quivered was arousing. Begging to suck Mike off hadn’t been serious—Micky liked having sex more than he liked giving head—but the low groan Mike let out as his cock filled Micky’s throat was almost enough to make Micky mean it, retroactively.

Then a familiar, quick beat cut through his motions. Micky pulled off and grinned. He barely even noticed the dazed look on Mike’s face as he said, “Rescue Me! I love this song, man, it’s great.” Mike made a general noise of agreement, but Micky continued without paying attention. He started rocking his head to dance with the music and, using Mike’s cock as a microphone, sang, “Rescue me! Or take me in your arms. Rescue me! I want your tender charms, cause I'm lonely and I'm blue—”

He stopped there, then caught Mike’s eyes. Micky’s face went red and he said, “Sorry. Kind of a turn off, huh?” as he moved up to straddle Mike’s hips.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, deadpan, “You’re a little pitchy.”

Mike reached up and touched his cheek.

The look Mike gave him was so soft that it hurt.

Mike was inside of him soon after, and they sang a little together, laughing around the words. Somehow it didn’t hurt at all, singing love right into each others’ mouths every time they kissed. It was only when the song ended and they were stuck with the kissing and the silence that followed their laughter that Micky was once again aware of how nice and gentle Mike’s gaze was.

He tried not to think about it. But in not thinking about it, he thought about the sex they were having.

The fact that Mike was so well-hung came with its pros and cons. It would have been easier to hit _that_ spot if Mike were smaller. It was certainly easier to get there with curled fingers than what Mike was working with. But Micky had already decided not to bother with that, anyway; he didn’t want to be chasing after perfect angles when riding Mike’s cock. Not this night, at the least.

Besides, sliding down slow onto Mike, feeling Mike stretch and fill him, was satisfying in its own right. And the length did something to help curb the fear of slipping off. It had never been something he’d thought about from the other end of things when girls rode him hard and fast and had to stop to slide his cock back inside, but suddenly every misstep seemed to speak to inexperience. That hadn’t mattered to him much when everything was slow, hand-holding and heart-to-hearts and something he felt had been very close to romantic. It mattered more now: if it was just sex, line drawn in the sand, nothing more, nothing less, then it had to at least be good sex. Actions and no words.

But wordless action was Mike’s forte, not his. And Mike’s wordless action right then was his expression. The hood of his eyelids, the soft tilt of his brows.

‘I see you,’ Mike had said the first time they had been together.

Maybe it was the position, bare sitting above Mike instead of face-to-face beneath him. Or maybe it was just the time that had passed, all the things that they’d said and felt since they’d laid beside the pool. But it felt like there was too much for Mike to see now.

“Maybe we oughta switch, y’know, roll over,” Micky suggested.

“It hurt?” Mike asked. His hands settled on Micky’s hips, but he didn’t try to reposition.

“No, it feels great, it’s just uh—I’ve never done it this way before, y’know, and man, you’re really lookin’ at me, and down there like that I bet all you can see is bones and hair and-- chin,” Micky rambled.

“Think I might get jealous?” Mike asked, stroking his own chin for moment. Then, “I like what I see, relax,” and he rolled his hips up.

Micky groaned, face flushing. He nodded, though Mike complimenting him made it worse.

He shut his eyes and focused on the feel of Mike inside him. Focused on riding Mike hard. Focused on the fact Mike had scooped some lube with his fingertips before gripping Micky’s cock. Focused on the physical until they had both reached the end.

+++

When Micky woke up, he looked over squint-eyed and saw Mike was still as bare as he was, sitting in bed next to him and flipping through a book. He knew it was a dictionary from how Mike was going through it, thumbing like he was set to shuffle a deck of cards.

“What’s the word today?” Micky asked.

Mike had a proper word-a-day calendar, too, but sometimes that word didn’t suit him. Mike didn’t startle at his voice but looked at him sidelong before stopping. “Mondegreen,” Mike said.

“What’s that mean?”

Meaningless as it was, they smiled at each other over the rhyme.

“Noun: a misunderstood or misinterpreted word or phrase resulting from a mishearing of the lyrics of a song.”

“I dig that. Seems hard to work it into conversation, though.”

“Sing something for me. I’ll hear a mondegreen.”

“Yeah, I’m real unintelligible. Should just replace me with Bill, bet _he_ sings clear.”

“Don’t get high before a show and we’ll stick with your mumbles,” Mike retorted. Micky scowled and harrumphed, but Mike put the dictionary aside, rolled over on top of him, and kissed him. “I’m insulting my hearing, not your singing,” he added, tone a bit more serious.

All told there'd now been three digs at his singing since last night. The explanation wasn’t very cajoling and might not have been true, just a placation to get Micky to stop pouting while still being able to take pot shots over what made them 'real' musicians. But if it was a lie, it was a good one: Mike had taken to wearing earplugs during their shows after a doctor told him he was deafening himself. He’d even gone as far to buy a few for the rest of them. And since it could be true, and was a sad sort of truth at that, Micky decided to forgive the slight.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked, rubbing Mike’s back.

“I wasn’t feeling bad before.”

“All right,” Micky said. He didn’t need to believe it. If Mike didn’t answer him straight from the start, he wasn't likely to do it with prodding. “I forgot to ask. How’d you and Peter get out of the room the other day?”

“You blocked us?”

“Me and Davy,” Micky confirmed. He thought that had been obvious, but maybe when so many people milling around were in their twenties, it wasn’t.

“You want me to show you?”

Micky nodded.

Mike rolled away from him and stood up. He walked to the door without even putting on his boxers, though he stopped for the briefest second to look through the peephole. “All right,” he said. “Watch close. Only gonna show you once.”

And he took on the air of a magician. If he’d had a top hat, he would’ve probably pulled a bouquet out of it, just for show. Then he reached out and…

Opened the door.

Micky stared blankly. He folded his arms over his knees and watched.

Mike peeked from behind the door, looking back at him.

Then, despite ‘only showing it once’, he pushed the door nearly shut, then pulled it open again, two more times.

Micky’s shoulders relaxed with realization. “It opens in, so the wedge didn’t work,” he acknowledged, “Got it.”

Mike shut the door then and headed back to bed.

Deciding to go after all the unanswered questions at once, Micky continued, “Well, what about the Playboy Mansion? What was that about?” He laid back down, but on his side, waiting expectantly for Mike.

“That’s your bag, Mick, you tell me,” Mike said as he slid into bed beside him. He answered before Micky could object, anyway, “We need to start working out a bit for KDWB. Thought I’d get a better setting if you weren’t thinking about it.”

That struck Micky as their improv training talking. Mike was good at lobbing invisible balls at him.

Micky lifted his eyebrows in a way that was a facial shrug. He looked at Mike for a moment, then asked, “What if I’d answered you serious? You were gonna make a bit about my _real_ fantasies?”

“Guess you’ll never know,” Mike said. He rolled over, so they were laying face-to-face. “What _are_ your real fantasies?”

“Guess you’ll never know,” Micky echoed.

Mike probably liked that answer better, anyway.


	21. July 27: New York

Mike woke up with Micky still laying on the bed beside him.

For a while, he just watched. Micky was so small when he was asleep. He curled up tight, but that had nothing to do with any of it. It was the lack of energy that Mike noticed, not the lack of body.

Mike leaned over and kissed Micky’s neck. Bit him just below his ear and rocked against his ass to wake him. Micky slid a leg forward to make it easier for Mike to press inside of him. Mike took the invitation with a press of his hips.

The position made it slow. Mike rarely minded that, and Micky was still too dozy to urge him faster. All he did was guide Mike’s hand to his cock and close his eyes, murmuring encouragements as though he was talking in his sleep. Even coming was soft, languid, instead of the explosive, powerful thing it had the potential to be.

When Mike said, “We got to get ready,” he was still pressed inside of Micky, but softening.

Micky opened his eyes then, but his gaze was squinty and full of lashes when he looked at the clock. He nodded his head and said, “I guess so,” and Mike wasn’t sure if he’d seen the time or was just taking Mike’s word for it.

They stayed laying together until they heard the muffled talking of the other guys somewhere down the hall.

+++

The rapid-fire _pop pop popopop _as they were doing their introductions was close, loud, cutting through the earplugs’ protection easily.

Mike grabbed Micky, threw him to the ground, and laid covering him, pressing flat against the stage while some of their audience screamed. It was the kind of move he’d pictured making when he was in the Air Force, the kind of thing that happened often in war movies. He’d never thought of doing it on stage, playing guitar, looking out into an audience.

It really only took a few seconds before the cops calmed everything down and wrangled the kid who’d thrown the firecrackers down right in front of the stage. But it was one of those times where seconds stretched to minutes while minutes ran fast.

When Mike stood up and helped Micky to his feet, Davy laughed at them.

“Ought to hire _you_ as security ‘stead of any of them,” Davy said, chipper, gesturing out to the cops while clapping Mike on the shoulder.

Micky laughed, but he was looking at Mike and his eyes said the kind of _thank you_ that’s hard to put into words. Though maybe it was only hard for Mike to put those things into words; he suspected Micky could say it easily enough. It was just that it would have been silly to, right then, when Mike hadn’t done anything special. Had just thrown them both to the ground because of a kid having fun.

Mike turned away to look back out to the crowd that was quickly reforming, not wanting to look at Micky any longer than he had to. He felt dizzy, sick with a mix of adrenaline and realization.

It was a lucky thing that he didn’t have the time to dwell on it while they performed. If anything, there was more vigor to their performance when there were things that stirred it up from the start. There was momentum, a force, a rock rolling downhill that bowled right over any thoughts. By the time the show was over they were all drenched in sweat, hair hanging down. The heat of the summer, bright lights, and packed bodies overwhelming even without the exertion.

They were at their hotel again before Davy said, “Fuck’s sake.”

“Mmm?” Micky asked, knowing the cuss was directed at him.

“Be careful, your knees are the only bit of you that doesn’t look like they’ve been run over by a truck.”

“You only noticed ‘cause they’re eye level,” Micky retorted. They scrapped for a moment, wrestling and knocking into the nearest wall, but they were both too tired to get anywhere with it. “Anyway, they’re fine,” he added once they’d finished, despite the lengthy pause, because Davy’s concern was genuine no matter how sharp the words were, and Micky knew it.

It was only then that Mike noticed that Micky’s pants had been ripped from how he’d thrown himself around the stage during his solo, showing off his knees: bruised, dirty, and just a little bloody. They had costume changes throughout the show, so the fact he hadn’t changed made Mike think maybe they did hurt, some.

He grabbed Micky by the arm and said low into his ear, “I’ll meet you in your room in five minutes.”

The way Micky’s cheeks went pink thrilled him. It almost made up for the fact that he hadn’t needed to say anything at all. He couldn’t remember scheduling this way, pre-planning much of anything. He’d just show up in Micky’s room or Micky would pop into his. But he knew and hated the truth of it. Right then he wanted Micky’s time all to himself. He didn’t want to share it with Peter or Davy, or any of the Sundowners. And he definitely didn’t want to open the door and see Micky fooling around with a girl.

He let Micky go.

Mike had seen Micky with women before on more than one occasion. Micky was funny that way. Self-conscious but not shy. Easily embarrassed but never discreet. They’d even locked eyes once, and Mike had only thought to make a funny face, to see if he could make Micky laugh. Though his thought had been to spoil it, he hadn’t been jealous then. He’d just always liked making Micky smile.

Mike thought of this as he walked to his room.

‘Just’.

It had felt like nothing at the time.

As he walked to his room, his feet were heavy and his head was light. The anxiety was dizzying, but the dread kept him upright until he could sit on the edge of his bed. He let out a slow, long breath. Trying to get the air back was a struggle, as though his lungs had been pricked by a pin. He grabbed his bottle of Ritalin, but held it only for a moment before setting it aside.

Mike took a moment to not think about what he was feeling. That wasn’t to say he didn’t know: He could see the feeling in his peripheral. He could feel it, taking up space unacknowledged in some dark corner like the box of photographs he had in his closet. Present but nonexistent until he peeked.

He thought _around_ it instead. He thought about things that would make it disappear. He thought of the things Micky had done lately to piss him off. Micky never took recording seriously unless he was strong-armed into it. They’d get so much more done if he did. His voice was still too weak to carry the show live, but he was likely to get caught up in his feelings if Mike addressed it. Which made it all the more infuriating that he wouldn’t go up front, where he wouldn’t be impeded by being behind the drums, head bobbing away from the mic and out of breath from an exertion that playing guitar didn’t bring.

All of these were things that he’d scolded Micky for time and time again.

What made him get up was the fact that at that moment, none of those things fazed him. At that moment, even trying to rile himself, he didn’t care about how professional Micky was.

He didn’t care about the music at all.

That realization was something he didn’t know how to work with. He grabbed his travel first aid kit, a tool he used rarely in part because of his religion and in part because of naturally-ingrained stubbornness.

Mike strode down the hall, listening to the rhythmic thump of his steps.

He swung open Micky’s door and let it stay that way as he went inside.

He grabbed Micky by the shirt to pull him in, then kissed him so roughly that it pushed him back. By the time they parted, they were dipped like they’d been dancing.

“Well hello to you, too,” Micky said brightly, beaming up at him.

“Take your pants off,” Mike said in return as he brought them both back upright. It was only then that he bothered to lock them in.

“Oh, sir, yes, sir!”

Mike watched with a fond smile as Micky struggled to rush out of his clothes. “While you’re at it, lower your expectations.”

“Huh?” Micky asked, staring at Mike blankly as his pants dropped around his ankles.

“Sit down.”

Micky frowned in confusion but did as he was told, stepping out of his pants and sitting on the edge of his bed.

Mike moved to kneel in front of him almost the moment Micky was bare-legged, opening up the first aid kit. “This is gonna sting,” he said as he pulled out the alcohol. He’d never used it before and had to pop the seal. Micky sucked in his breath and his calves tightened when the alcohol hit the scrapes on his knees, but he otherwise sat still.

“You feel all right?” Mike asked. He wasn’t used to asking. At least not under these kinds of circumstances, for something so minor. Something he was unlikely to treat on himself.

“Sure, do you?”

Mike nodded. “For the most part.”

Micky reached out, brushing Mike’s hair back. Mike was longer-haired now than when he’d started, but his hair was still a little too short and had a bit too much body to stay when it was pushed behind his ear. It was a thoughtless sort of thoughtfulness, instinctually caring in a way Mike wished he could mimic. Though ‘mimic’ didn’t seem the right word; it seemed to indicate a falseness, when the desire wasn’t false at all.

“Did you think it was a gun?” Mike asked.

Micky shrugged. “I didn’t have time to think it was anything,” he said.

Mike nodded, though he wondered if Micky was kindly pretending he wasn’t an idiot. He had been around guns in a general sort of a way, but he’d never cared for them. Micky had enjoyed shooting since childhood and still had a gun, though he made out to the papers like he only ever shot tin cans. It wasn’t exactly a lie, as he hadn’t been hunting in a while, but it was careful wording to match the sensibilities of their audience. Neither middle-class kids nor hippies had ever gone on a hunting trip to New Zealand with their doctors.

“Thinking about your mortality, huh?” Micky continued.

“Thinking about my life,” Mike said. Maybe Micky got the distinction and maybe he didn’t. He didn’t say anything to that end either way, but he was used to Mike’s vagueries.

It didn’t take long to clean and bandage Micky’s knees because they were only a little roughed up to start with. But it took longer than it needed to. Mike found himself reluctant to do anything else. 

“You don’t gotta buy me dinner for me to put out,” Micky said.

“How do you mean?” Mike asked, though he knew what Micky was getting at.

“You can just say you wanna fuck me.” Micky paused. His shoulders relaxed in amusement and realization. “I can give you head, man, stand up. My knees are okay.”

“I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want head, neither.”

“What _do _you want?”

Most of the time the answer to that question came easy. There were a lot of ways Mike had been criticized. Those criticisms came harder and faster now that he was famous, but even with that no one had ever said he didn’t know what he wanted from life or from people. And it had also never been said he was indirect about getting it.

His mind wasn’t blank, but was filled with things he’d never learned to express any way but lyrically. The things that sounded nice with pen and paper and detachment.

“I don’t know,” he said. He’d said those words before, of course, but this was one of the first times it tasted sour in his mouth. It seemed to be a habit now, for Micky to hear it when it would hurt the most.

Micky looked at him with open curiosity, lips quirked and eyebrows slightly pinched.

“Me, neither,” Micky said after a beat. He smiled. Mike wondered if it was a pleasantry, or if they were having some deep discussion without discussing anything at all. “Let’s order in, huh? Maybe we can get a T.V. and watch something.”

“All right,” Mike said, and stood. He paused to kiss Micky. It was a kiss that might be on television rather than movies. Like the Cleavers or Ricardos. The sort that said ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’ or in this case, ‘all right’.

“You’re _sure_ ‘no sex’?”

“No sex.”

Micky clucked his tongue as he stood up. “At least share a cold shower with me later.”

“Even the hot ones don’t turn out so good with you, Mick.”

“Feh,” Micky dismissed, waving his hand, “No complaining, you still got off.”

Mike made a noise in response to that, not able to think of an answer with words.

They ordered room service and had a television wheeled up to the room. Micky switched them over to NBC with a declaration of, “Gotta support the home team!” and they watched Johnny Carson together while eating a meal Mike couldn’t remember by the time they were done with it.

“Man, I love Carson,” Micky said.

It wasn’t the first time Mike had heard it. “Me, too.”

“We should do Carson.”

“We should do _what_?”

“Like a bit! On our show, it’d be a gas right? Man he’s really a riot.”

“Let’s stick to ripping off The Beatles.”

Micky huffed a laugh, but curbed his idea. “And Dave Clark Five.”

“Marx Brothers.”

“Is that’s all? That’s not enough. Hey, you know, Marx Brothers, we need a Harpo. Or is that you, Mr. Strong-and-Silent?”

“Mr. Schneider is Harpo,” Mike said, “I’d like to keep from losin’ my voice.”

Micky had been looking at him the entire time, but _looked_ at him then. “Your throat hurt?”

“Naw. Feels a lot better.” He knew Micky wasn’t asking without reason or making a strange leap in logic. He’d had his tonsils out just before they’d gone on tour. They’d been hurting nearly all the time by the end, and long hours of prayer and worry had done nothing. It wasn’t the first time that such things hadn’t been enough to heal him, but it was the first time that he thought it might get in the way of living his life, impede his professional goals. There were plenty of their songs that weren’t tailored to his voice as it stood—with good reason; he’d rather listen to Micky sing than listen to himself. But that didn’t mean he wanted to risk his voice. Not when The Monkees were finally finding theirs.

“Good,” Micky said, settling back against the headboard. “I think the voice is the most important part of—not you, but _you_,” he waved his hand around in a general all-encompassing way. “Y’know, everyone.”

Mike shrugged. He was fairly certain Micky was being hyperbolic, there being so many parts of a person to consider. But he could see the value of it; hell, he’d thought of the value of their voices just a second before. “Not everyone has a million-dollar voice, Micky.”

Micky paused to give him a warm, sweet smile. Then he shook his head. “No, no, no. That’s not why. It’s, all you are is your brain, man, right? Like, neurons and synapses and everything else in your head.” He made a gesture by his skull that wasn’t cruel, but was almost violent, aggressive, like he was grabbing at it. “And if you lose your voice, you’re losing the one way to express who you are.”

Mike hummed to tell him to continue. It seemed a little half-formed, but passionate. A lot of Micky’s ideas were that way.

“When I was a kid, they thought—” Micky paused, then said, “I don’t want you to care about that part,” he decided.

“What part?” Mike asked, tone clearly trying to bait Micky into sharing.

Micky gave him a smile. He shook his head, but fondly. “When I went to school, uh, regular school, after I was tutored. I saw this picture of a kid in an iron lung, and he was smiling. And I thought, how can he smile when he’s just… a head? I ran around a lot as a kid—”

“Never would’ve guessed.”

Micky snickered, “And I guess I thought you wouldn’t have anything, if you couldn’t. Run around, I mean. But most of a person is their head. I guess maybe it’d be okay, if I could at least talk to people. It’s pretty scary, thinking maybe I couldn’t.”

“I think folks’d understand just fine if you lost your voice.” Mike sat up a little straighter. “Try talking to me now, in pantomime.”

“That’s just charades.”

“Sure, it’s charades. But no categories, none of that.”

Micky tipped his head in agreement. He held up two fingers.

“Two words.”

Micky nodded. One finger went up, then both hands. He wiggled his fingers as he moved his hands downward.

“First word, rain,” Mike guessed.

Micky shook his head. He balled a hand up into a fist and scrubbed it against his chest.

“Shower,” Mike guessed.

Micky nodded and held up two fingers, _second word_. Then he wrapped his arms around himself and turned away from Mike, running his hands along his arms and moving his head as though he were in a steamy make-out session.

“Shower sex,” Mike guessed on a breath equal parts annoyed and amused.

“Sure thing, let’s go,” Micky said brightly, turning around. He defended, “Hey,_ you_ said it, I didn’t!” as he saw Mike’s face.

“No,” Mike said, laughing now. “Look, if you’ve got somethin’ to say folks’ll hear it, no matter how it’s got to be said.” He furrowed his brow as he thought about that. Then he said, “Let me try.”

He leaned over to their discarded plates and pulled a spoon out of Micky’s tea—Mick had been getting big on all the English niceties since the first time they’d been. It was funny to Mike; he and Micky were both fans of Cajun cooking, heat and flavor. England had some of the blandest foods around, in Mike’s mind. Ah, well. He held the spoon up in front of his face, inclined his head and lifted his eyebrows, then set it back with the dishes and laid down.

Micky stared down at him with face pinched up. If he were looking in a mirror, that expression would’ve been suspicious. From Micky, it was puppy-dog, head-tilting curiosity. Then, slowly, hesitatingly, Micky laid on his side next to Mike. “Sure you don’t want to ‘fork’ me instead? Ha, ha!” 

Micky asked with a put-on affect, exaggerated for comedy’s sake. But Mike could hear the edge of nerves, the wondering if he’d made the wrong guess. Mike rolled over and wrapped his arms around Micky’s middle, hands flat on his midriff.

“This is what I want tonight, Mick,” he said, “Got it in one.”


	22. July 28: Ohio

It was the second day in a row that Mike woke up next to Micky. This time his arms were wrapped around Micky’s middle and they were laying pressed firm against each other. His mind tripped over whether this was _again _or _still_. He couldn’t remember holding each other quite this way before last night, but they’d separated to fly to Ohio early in the morning. They’d ended up back together all the same, so maybe it was both _again_ and _still_.

His hand drifted up to feel the thump of Micky’s heart, and he listened to the rhythmic in-and-out of Micky’s breath. He wondered if he could build a song around them.

“Micky,” he said when he had an inkling that Micky was waking up. When his breathing changed, when the air around him grew a little livelier despite the fact he’d barely moved an inch.

Micky made an ‘Mm?’ sort of a noise in response.

“What songs would you pick, if your life was a musical?”

He wasn’t usually a fan of those kinds of questions. They were the kinds of things that teen magazines asked so they didn’t have to ask anything of substance. He knew the kinds of music Micky liked, so it felt redundant on that front, too. And yet he felt the need.

Micky laughed a little, and had it been anyone else, Mike would have felt the prickle of embarrassment heating his ears. But he always knew the intent behind Micky’s laughing. “Soul music,” Micky said, “And Mike Nesmith originals, they’re some of my favorites.”

“That right?”

Micky rolled over and they laid nose-to-nose, body-to-body. “Mm-hmm. You gonna write some songs for me?”

“Considering it,” Mike said, all seriousness despite knowing Micky was teasing.

They kissed then. Softly, nicely, Micky smiling against his mouth.

“What do you hear now?” Mike asked when they parted.

“Windchimes,” Micky answered almost immediately. And while maybe it wasn’t a song, he was still going along with Mike instead of answering ‘nothing’ like Mike thought most people would have. “Like I’m just sitting on my porch or something, you know?”

“You don’t have any windchimes on your porch.” Mike rolled on top of Micky then, and Micky obliged him.

“I’ve made some!”

“And they’re all in your garage. Or your living room. Or your bathroom.”

“They are _not_ in my bathroom—it’d be pretty groovy, though, huh? In the shower? Like rain.”

“That ain’t the part that’d make it like rain, Mick.”

“It’s not just water that makes rain _rain_, man. It’s the ambience,” he said the last word with flourish, theatrical and stretched out long.

“I’ll tell the weatherman,” Mike returned, nuzzling his face against Micky’s neck. Micky snickered, fingers curling into Mike’s back. The way Micky gripped him was beginning to be familiar, signature. He thought he might be able to close his eyes and identify Micky by the press of his fingertips. It had meant something to know the sexual parts of his body: Something important, intimate, that Mike had been reluctant to get to know right from the start. But it felt somehow more private to know the calluses on the heels of Micky’s hands or the tan lines on his thighs and hips; those were the sorts of things it had never occurred to him to guard against. “Any case that’s not what you’re hearing. You’re hearing Davy, tinkling a little bell for service.”

Micky laughed some more, and Mike was glad to have his face pressed against the crook of Micky’s shoulder to hide the way it pleased him. “Oi, garcon!” Micky called, mimicking Davy. It was Mike who laughed then, which set Micky off all over, and he had to repeat it before continuing, “Bring me a seven-course meal with seven spoons, seven knives, and seven forks-- all served on a silken sheet…. And your finest girl, served _under_ a silken sheet.”

“I’m afraid our forks only come in pairs,” Mike said. He didn’t try to take on a French accent. Micky’s voices were lousy, but in a good way. Mike’s were lousy, in a lousy way. He leaned into his natural Texan twang instead. “I can give you six or eight.”

Micky sighed heavily. “All right, then. Eight. But that means I’ll need an _eight_-course meal.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Jones,” Mike agreed.

Micky smiled at him squint-eyed, all cheeks, and Mike found himself not caring to keep up the bit. But then, Micky didn’t either.

“Mike,” Micky said his name like it meant something.

Mike didn’t like to admit to being afraid. When he did admit to it, he tried never to cow to it. He tried to confront the things that scared him, to control it even if he couldn’t stop it. But he was scared to hear the meaning, and he dodged it instead of letting Micky tell him what it was. “Do you think we’ll outsell The Beatles tonight?” he asked.

Micky actually shook his head a little, brows furrowed, to make room for the question in his mind. “Um. I don’t know. How much’d they make?”

“John said over forty-one thousand when they were here.”

“Pounds?”

“Dollars.”

“Aw, well….We’ll probably make forty, then.”

“Thousand?”

“No, dollars,” Micky said, and they smiled at each other. “But, y’know… we could _say_ we made more than them. Who’d know?”

“Oh, sure. We could say we’re makin’ more than them and the Stones, combined.”

His tone was sarcastic, maybe even derisive, but Micky looked at him with a conspiratorial smile. Or, more accurately, a shit-eating grin. “We _could_ say that.”

Mike kissed him. “You’re a bad influence.”

“That’s—true,” Micky said.

Mike heard the hitch, and the fear curled back up in his chest. Micky was often too easy to read, even when he tried to censor his thinking. ‘That’s why you love me!’ was what Micky had wanted to say. Mike knew it, and this time he couldn’t avoid the meaning no matter how much he wanted to. He was simply lucky that Micky had dodged it, himself.

“It is true,” Mike echoed. He didn’t know which part he was answering.

This was how the morning went. They didn’t have sex. Or make love, or fuck, or fool around, or any of the other things that Mike thought they’d done recently at one point or another. They sat in bed nude, talking and kissing. Maybe that didn’t mean anything at all. To be friends with benefits, you had to be friends first and foremost. If Mike were being critical, it was hard to find the differences in what they had done that morning compared to any time they’d been alone in the time before the tour.

They’d sat together, talking, laughing, having a good time many times since the day they’d met. Even the nudity wasn’t so damning: Mike hadn’t hopped onto the hippie train, but Micky--. Micky was his own person, and Mike knew that person well. But Micky also wrapped himself up in a patchwork quilt made from the personalities of everyone he’d ever met. Mike could see bits of himself in Micky now and again, a flash of something he didn’t think was there before they’d met. Maybe that was true of everyone and Micky simply made no secret of it. Either way, Micky would be a nudist with his nudist friends and he’d dress around his conservative friends. It was only ever for Mike’s own comfort that Micky had worn clothes before, so there wasn’t anything romantic in being nude together now that Mike was familiar and comfortable with the concept. At least, it wasn’t _necessarily_ romantic.

The way they were holding each other said ‘love’. But there was love in friendship. Mike had told Bob and Bert he loved them, before. He’d told Micky he loved him before, when they hadn’t shared a bed and the word had suddenly seemed a bad idea. He couldn’t remember ever saying it to Peter or Davy, but ‘love’ had never been a dirty word when spoken between friends.

Maybe that was only true because so many people acted like it was something meant to be unsaid. So many called him ‘queer’ or worse long before he’d ever crossed that kind of line with Micky. Men weren’t supposed to love other men, not even as friends. They certainly weren’t supposed to admit to it. And if he was anything, he was contrary. It was easy to love friends when the expectation was only that he shouldn’t. Loving, then, had no definition. There was no way to tell him he’d done it wrong, except for the fact he’d done it at all. It was difficult to love romantically, when the expectation was that he _should _do it—but properly. With held hands and soft words and comforting hugs. Something about the properness, the required tenderness, of it all was alarming. It was all too easy to do wrong. Sharp words and cool detachment couldn’t fit in the confines of romantic love the way it could the empty space of the platonic.

For once Mike wasn’t the first one up. He only unwrapped his arms from Micky’s waist when Davy pounded on the door.

+++

He tried not to think about love and its meanings once he and Micky had left the hotel. For the hours before the show, it wasn’t so hard. Not having Micky pressed right against him, heart thumping against the palm of his hand, made the dust settle in his mind. Rattling off to the press pre-approved answers to pre-approved questions that he’d heard a thousand times before was like driving back home after a long day of recording. Autopilot. He didn’t have to think about anything. It was like sleeping while awake, and Mike was happy for the reprieve.

It came back to him briefly, just as they stepped onto the stage. When Micky looked at the audience, then to him, and said, “Let’s tell John and Mick we made a hundred thousand tonight.”

“Seems a bit ambitious.”

“Eighty?”

“Still too high.”

“Thirty.”

“Too low.”

“Fifty.”

“There we are.”

The banter took all of a few seconds, but for those few seconds Mike’s heart swelled with warmth. It was only turning his head to look at the crowd, already roaring with excitement, that kept him from pulling Micky into a kiss.

But even that wasn’t the clincher. Nor was the moment later, when Mike caught himself scanning for guns and fireworks in equal measure.

The thing that really did him in was Micky’s solo. When Micky was tossing himself around the stage like he’d done every day since they’d started the tour. When Mike had thrown a cape around Micky’s shoulders and found himself saying soft but sharp, “Man, cool it, would you?”, thinking more of Micky’s knees than the way the audience was screaming for them.

And Micky grinned at him and said in breathless but ridiculously fast words that Mike understood more from reading his lips than from hearing him speak, “Gotta give them a good show, right? ‘Sides, I like when you take care of me,” before Micky ripped himself away and hurled himself back halfway across the stage, chest heaving as he sang.

Standing with the cape in his hands, momentarily struck dumb before reminding himself to usher Micky off again, Mike found himself thinking _I love that boy._

A simple, clear thought. Untarnished by the fear of losing Micky to some violent fan, or the fear of knowing just what that love would mean. There was no boxing it up, no putting it aside, no qualifying or quantifying or dismissing. It was neon-bright in his head, flashing on the backs of his eyelids. _I love him_.

Mike gathered his senses enough to get back into their bit and haul Micky back off the stage.

Most of the time when the show was over, Mike was able to pick it apart piece by piece. He could compare each of their performances to every other night they’d gone on stage and every long hour of practice before that. He liked to think he knew every flaw, every missed note and flubbed line. He’d set aside some time to look it over and see what they could do better the next day.

That night he remembered nothing. He steeled himself for getting the exact same kind of notes from Peter.

+++

“You wanna come back to my room?” Micky asked after the show, lifting his eyebrows. Even hidden under his sweat-soaked hair there was a lewd sort of a curve to them.

They were back in their hotel. The hallways were empty but maybe wouldn’t be for long. Mike could hear the chatter of the various friends, acquaintances, and groupies. He wanted to say yes. And unlike the night before, he wanted to have sex. He wanted it very specifically: the way they had their first time together. Each and every time together, even when they’d used only their hands, had revealed something to Mike that he hadn’t known before. But he’d never had the sort of deep, to-the-soul understanding as he had looking down at Micky, his face damp from pool water and sweat and eyes shining with emotion.

It seemed both foolish and reasonable to think that kind of understanding could happen more than once with the same person. It was thrill-seeking, high-chasing, to go after it. But there was so much to set it apart from the first time that it seemed possible to recapture.

He reached out and caught Micky by a belt loop. Micky smiled and came closer as Mike felt the thin strip of fabric between thumb and forefinger.

“Raincheck?”

Micky’s smile faltered and his eyes changed a little. Mike tried to avoid the cliché, but he thought of the adage, _the eyes are the window to the soul_ all the same_._ It felt like someone’d closed the shutters on him. Micky stayed close, physically, but Mike had the feeling it was because his belt loop was still hooked by Mike’s finger. “Sure thing, Mike. Big plans?”

“I think I’m going to visit Peter,” Mike said.

“Peter? _Peter?_ I’m getting stood up for _Peter!?”_ Micky demanded, pitch starting high and getting higher.

“Yep.”

Micky smiled at him. “Okay, have fun.”

The fake indignity had faded, but there’d been something real beneath it that made Mike want to follow Micky instead.

Micky’s hand brushed against his waist. “Goodnight, babe.”

“Goodnight, Mick.”

Micky’s room was closer, and Mike watched him disappear into it before continuing to his own. He knew he’d be able to open Micky’s door later if he wanted to. He wouldn’t even need to knock. They’d only just started picking up the habit of locking, and that came from having something to hide; even if Micky had a girl with him, that need wouldn’t be there. Mike could walk right in and Micky would probably carry on like he hadn’t been interrupted. He already knew what it would look like, the sounds Micky would make—different, when he was fucking, than when he was getting fucked.

Mike hated every last bit of that thought. He forced himself not to think of any of it. He picked up his guitar and went to Peter’s room. As expected, he could hear muffled music on the other side. It was folksy, not like what they played with Jimi or even with The Sundowners.

He paused a moment and recognized the music as something Peter had written. Peter had played it for him once before. Mike had hated it and said so. He still couldn’t say he liked it, now that the song wasn’t Peter’s alone, but he could hear the potential that he couldn’t before.

An open-door policy was in place there, too.

He knocked anyway.

“Come in!” called a voice that he knew wasn’t Peter’s.

Mike recognized a few people, though he was only on a friendly basis with Stephen Stills. Stephen had popped in a few times while they’d been on tour, sometimes with Richie and Neil and sometimes alone. He supposed the rest of them knew Peter from Greenwich and had made the trip over to New York while they were playing there, and had decided to hang on. He also supposed Peter had footed any costs for them all to be there. That annoyed him, though it wasn’t his money to worry after. “Mind if I sit in a while?” he asked, lifting his guitar.

“Sure thing, Mikey!” Stephen said, holding out a joint.

Mike took a hit and passed it back. Not many people called him ‘Mikey’, and it still stuck out whenever he heard it. Micky had said it on occasion, in a way that was meant to be just a little annoying and thereby endearing. All the guys from Buffalo Springfield used it, as a riff on both their names—Micky and Mikey. From them, Mike was apathetic to it. If it had come from Peter, who had smiled a little when Stephen had said it, he would have taken it to be condescension, and he would have hated it.

He sat down where there was space, which was the floor in the middle of the room.

“Micky and Davy aren’t joining us this evening?” Stephen asked.

All of them, Mike included, had begun to play. But it was soft right then and still easy to talk over. “I think they’ve got other entertainment tonight,” Mike replied. He had no doubt Micky would be having fun, and it seemed a safe bet that Davy would be a key player. “Maybe tomorrow, assuming you’re still with us.”

“I’d like to see them, so long as I’m not encroaching.”

“Never! All of you are welcome,” Peter declared, “Mi casa es vuestra casa—or, mi hotel room es vuestra hotel room, as the case may be.” 

Mike found himself dissecting that. Whether Peter was trying to show he was clever, by using ‘vuestra’ instead of ‘su’ like most would have. Whether he was showing the guests how they _weren’t_ so clever, by incorporating English.

Mike ducked his head. Micky would tell him he was looking for things that weren’t there. That Peter had just been making a joke, not trying to insult anyone’s intelligence. But Micky was too kind for his own good and would accept the insult if it made things easier. Mike saw it in Peter because he could see it in himself, how his own accomplishments could be used to tear someone else down even if they didn’t fully recognize the slight.

In a way the idea of Peter being nice, extending hospitality where Mike wouldn’t’ve, rankled Mike just as much as the idea of Peter being mean in the way he’d been mean, before, himself. 

They played together, Peter’s song and Mike’s several, along with songs by Stephen and the people in the room that Mike didn’t know even after being introduced. They played and talked and smoked for a long, long while, until one by one Peter’s friends were curled up like dogs asleep on his floor.

“I think I’m going to go to sleep, Michael,” Peter said. “Is there anything that you wanted?”

“What’d you think of the show tonight?”

Peter paused. “I think it went well. The crowd enjoyed themselves. I enjoyed myself,” he said. He wasn’t trying to soften a blow, though Mike wasn’t surprised by the criticism that came next, “Micky’s still slurring—well, uh, not enunciating, you know, ‘slurring’ makes him sound impaired, uh, not enunciating when he’s on the drums. He should do vocal exercises. But I don’t think—he’s sensitive about his voice and I think he’d be more sensitive if I was the one to criticize it.”

Mike didn’t say anything to that, but made a motion of ‘yeah, probably’. They both babied Micky’s emotions more than they ever would each other’s, but he was insecure enough about his voice that harping wouldn’t yield any positive results, anyway.

“You were playing too fast on the last three songs,” Peter continued, “And on ‘I’m a Believer’, instead of… here.” He grabbed his guitar and softly played a section as it was meant to be, then followed it with the way Mike had played it, making the mistakes clear and deliberate.

There were more mistakes than he’d thought, but it didn’t surprise him.

“I’ll practice before tomorrow’s show,” he said.

“You were distracted,” Peter said.

Mike couldn’t tell if Peter was harping on the mistakes or trying to absolve him. He considered it, then said, “Those firecrackers gave me a lot to think about.”

Peter’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed before his expression settled to something neutral. Mike was too tired to wonder what had flashed through Peter’s mind. “The impermanence of life,” Peter guessed.

“I’m comfortable with the impermanence of my life,” Mike said. He tried not to stress the _my_. He was more than just uncomfortable with the thought when it came to Micky’s life instead. But focusing on that was pruning leaves instead of cutting down the tree. “More I’m thinking what I want to do with it so long as it lasts.”

There was another pause. Sometimes their conversations were rapid-fire, like they were debating even when they were on the same side. Right then it was far too late for either of them to try and out-clever each other, but that didn’t mean they wanted to give up any ground with a thoughtless answer. At least, Mike didn’t.

“I understand,” Peter said finally. “It’s hard to have a sense of who you are when you’re on stage. Or on tour at all, I suppose.” He finally set his guitar back down, carefully. “In L.A. we’re very isolated, insulated. Everybody’s famous so no one cares that we are, most of the time.” They could still get the girls screeching on occasion, but it wasn’t so hard to walk around the way it was anywhere else, where celebrity actually meant something. “So it’s even more jarring when someone—something, comes along and makes you remember you’re a person.”

Mike didn’t know if that was right or not, so he didn’t say anything.

Peter didn’t seem to notice. “It’s important to have something that grounds you. I know you’re not into meditation—” Mike must’ve made a face without noticing, because Peter went suddenly thin-lipped. “But I think it would help you, to focus on who you are, as Michael Nesmith, instead of as a Monkee. Consider your goals, your desires, outside of our celebrity. Think about what you’d want if you had no material possessions. It’s a good thing that that kid is making you think…. Just, maybe don’t do it in the middle of the show.”

The last line surprised him, and Mike laughed. After a moment he asked, no heat despite the blunt question, “Is this what you’d want without the money, Peter?” he asked.

Peter looked around himself for a moment. “Friends, music, and laughter is exactly what I want,” he agreed.

Mike looked over the curled up bodies. Then he looked to Peter. “Then I’m happy for you,” he said.

“Thank you, Mike,” Peter said, and he sounded sincere.

He didn’t ask what Mike wanted in return, but that was fine; Mike wouldn’t have answered him.

+++

Mike went to Micky’s room without stopping by his own. He set his guitar next to the nightstand, stripped down to his boxers, and crawled into bed.

“You smell like grass,” Micky said when Mike slotted behind him.

Mike found he wasn’t surprised that Micky was awake. “You smell like sex,” he returned, just a little sharp around the edges. The thought made him jealous, so he couldn’t say why he pressed his nose into Micky’s skin to breathe him in, anyway.

“Yeah? I figured she was wearing too much perfume, it was pretty heavy—Davy brought a couple girls up. You want me to shower?”

“No. Do you want me to?” Not that it mattered. Mike, at least, was likely to do so before being completely settled for the night. Micky had probably already taken a birdbath and would wait until morning to do it properly. He held Micky closer and breathed in again. His hair smelled clean, felt clean against Mike’s face, despite the sweat Mike could feel beneath his fingertips. He’d probably washed it in the sink.

“Naw. I like the smell of grass.”

“I like your perfume,” Mike countered. He didn’t want to encourage Micky picking up girls even if they didn’t stay the night, but Micky laughed a little, which was enough to make up for it. “Do me a favor, Mick.”

“Okay,” Micky said immediately. He turned over so they could look at each other. “What is it?”

“Sing a song for me.”

Micky gave him the second funny, lips-tight sort of look that night. Earlier, Mike thought he was smart enough to know why Micky had been annoyed with him. This time he couldn’t work it out. “In twelve hours you’re gonna hear me sing six songs and you don’t gotta waste a favor.”

“I’ve got a special request.”

A pause.

“All right,” Micky said, “Which song?”

It had been nameless when Mike had heard it the first time, and he hadn’t asked after it the second. Instead, he repeated the lyrics that Peter had been singing with his friends before Mike had arrived. It came out flat, but sung all the same, almost like reciting poetry. It was easier to remember with the rhythm.

Micky listened intently, then said, “That’s not one of yours.”

“No,” Mike agreed.

Micky waited a moment, but Mike didn’t say whose it was. He supposed maybe Micky knew anyway, because Micky knew who he had been with.

Micky sat up, so Mike did, too. He grabbed his guitar and started to play to the best of his recollection. He had to repeat a few notes for Micky to hop in on the right spot, but it sounded unnatural to Mike’s ear only because he’d heard how Peter intended it.

“How’d you like it?” Micky asked once they’d finished.

“You sounded beautiful,” Mike said as he set his guitar back against the nightstand. He laid down again, and Micky followed his lead. “But it ain’t your song. And it’s not right for the band when Peter’s singing it.”

“Uh-huh,” Micky said. “You could just tell Pete it sounded better when it was all you guys playin’ it. Sometimes crow doesn’t taste so bad, Mike.”

“You think I should be nicer.”

“To Peter? Sometimes. I think he’s gotta be nicer to you, too.”

“Not to Peter. To everyone.”

“No, not to everyone. I like havin’ you as my muscle,” Micky said. He didn’t laugh, but sort of smiled as he ran his fingers across Mike’s skinny bicep. Despite the amusement, Mike didn’t think he was joking. Micky would have never even switched from his stage name, Braddock, if Mike hadn’t decided to drop ‘Blessing’ first and told him it was a good idea to have his own, real, birth name in the credits. Micky hadn’t wanted to inconvenience Bob and Bert, so Mike had done the inconveniencing for the both of them-- Mike had known the art of bullheadedness since he was a child; Micky had never had to learn. Micky’s brow furrowed and he looked at Mike closely, “To yourself, maybe.”

Mike laughed. “Micky, I’ve got a big house, a fleet’a cars, nice Italian furniture, you name it. I’m not depriving myself of anything.”

Micky kept smiling, but his face was soft and sad. “Okay, Mike,” he said.

Something in his tone made Mike feel like he’d lost even though Micky had been the one to concede.

He kissed Micky, fast, desperate, a grab in the dark, and it was a near-crippling relief when Micky returned the affection. His hand slid down Micky’s middle to wrap around his cock and stroke firmly; Micky returned that affection, too.

When they had sex it wasn’t quite the monumental thing Mike had been thinking of that night. Still, Micky gripped him tight. Micky’s face turned to press against his cheek, and Micky whined for him, begged _please, Mike, please_ against the stubble he’d have to shave in the morning. Even if he never had another night like their first together, Mike thought that would be more than enough.


	23. Historical References

I’ve decided to make a reference page at the end of this story to make note of both references I actively used and some I simply had in mind while writing. This might not end up including everything that's in the story simply because I'm making this several chapters in, but I'll try! A lot of these references come from my own snooping. I have tried to add links to articles when I haven't looked through archives personally so as to credit those who have. I don't make any claims that this work is factually accurate; there are many ways in which it is obviously not, the pairing being the least of which. I do, however, love the band and their history, and hopefully this fic shows the love I have for the true story even when it's not faithfully represented.

# Micky Dolenz Family References

George Dolenz's petition and acceptance to become a naturalized citizen:

**February 1945, preparing for Micky's birth:** "It was casualty day at Universal, too. George Dolenz shows up limping. He was cutting down a pepper tree to make room for a nursery on his house and part of the tree crashed on his foot."  
**On Micky's name, [according to this article:](https://dododolenz.tumblr.com/post/125906068851/july-15-1945#notes) **"We had a terrible mix-up on names. After we'd named Michael, we realized that the cat and dog were also named Michael. I guess we like the name. So we call the baby Micky, and the cat Mike, and the dog Michael, and nobody gets confused now"  
Janelle and George's marriage certificate:

Janelle, as reported by newspapers at the time, did briefly leave George. This was because of a fight over her giving up her career to be a stay at home mom. I will try to find a specific source for this as I did post the article on my Tumblr at some point, but I believe more general references to Janelle wanting to keep working appear in Micky's autobiography. (Referenced [Chapter 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/48562670))

Although Micky notes in his book that his dad saw out a six-year contract with Howard Hughes, there were newspaper articles at the time that state he broke the contract several years in (Some stated he had a seven-year contract so arguably he was near the end of the contract anyway) one such quote was:

"Actors can get stale. They might even start believing their own publicity. — George Dolenz, on why he asked Howard Hughes not to wait to put him in movies after Hughes told him he was ‘saving him for something big’"

For the sake of the story he was asked to be released from his contract, though there is probably more to it that Micky could be aware of while newspapers were not. (Referenced [Chapter 3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/48770303))

# References to Circus Boy

Facts from [this article:](https://dododolenz.tumblr.com/post/121530730821/last-circus-boy-thing-for-now-sorry-for-the)

  * Micky made $15,000/annually on Circus Boy (45 cents on the dollar)
  * Micky 'leaves his house about 6:30 in the morning. Sometimes he doesn’t get home until 7:30 at night.' (Referenced [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49356434))
  * Micky had a teacher who taught him 3 hours a day on the road in addition to the time spent working (semi-referenced [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49356434) in that it acknowledges Micky had a tutor.)
  * Micky's pets: A newt, some guppies, snails, a canary, two parakeets, a dog named Mijacogeo, and 3 cats
  * Quotes from Micky: “If most kids knew what it’s like to be in the movies, they’d rather be at home. I’d rather be an ordinary boy and grow up,” 
  * Ages: Micky, 12. Coco: 8, and his mother was pregnant with Deborah at the time

From [this article ](https://dododolenz.tumblr.com/post/121498031706/a-cute-circus-boy-newspaper-article-since-i):

Age 13, goes on rides like Monongahela Incline to the top of Mt. Washington.

  * Dad denies him candy bars but does allow him to get popcorn (Referenced [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49356434))
  * Performs at Kennywood Park. Not stated here, but he would play guitar and sing _Purple People Eater _(referenced [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49206629))

# Micky Dolenz References

  * Micky did have a tutor on the road while working on Circus Boy. This allowed him to skip 2 grades, but he was then advised to retake the courses, which he did, per his autobiography. (Referenced [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49356434))  
To that end, here are Micky's high school yearbook photos 10th grade/1961/1962.  

  *   * Micky did get stuck climbing Mount Whitney with a friend due to a blizzard, and they were worried that they wouldn't be able to make it down. Eventually the snow stopped and they were able to climb down without incident. (Reference Chapter 10)
  * Micky did briefly work fixing/selling cars prior to The Monkees (Referenced Chapter 12)
  *   
Micky with Micky and the One-Nighters. Per Micky he got bumped from the group for not playing an instrument/being redundant since they didn't need another guitar player (Referenced Chapter 11)

# Mike Nesmith References

  * According to Mike's autobiography, 'Boone-ing' is a term he coined meaning "when a person can't get past their first impression of a thing, perceiving it as the standard for all other versions simply because they experienced it first." after a date couldn't get past her opinion of Pat Boone singing "Ain't it a Shame" to appreciate Fats Domino's original recording of the song. (Referenced [Chapter 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/48935270))

# References to the Music Scene

  * Arguably the reasons Headquarters was messed in terms of US singles with was to teach _The Monkees_ a lesson. Whether this is true or not probably depends who you ask. (Referenced [Chapter 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/48618128))
  * Micky and Peter saw Jimi Hendrix perform at the [Monterey Pop Music Festival on June 18th 1967](https://www.rockarchive.com/news/2017/jimi-hendrix-monterey-pop-festival) , where Micky asked him to open for The Monkees on their upcoming tour (Referenced [Chapter 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49265930))
  * At the Monterey Festival, Jimi played _[Hey, Joe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fe82eYRjiBU) _at the Monterey Pop Festival. The reference to_ [Love or Confusion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIuf_SPvX-Y)_ isn't fully correct, as this was not played live at Monterey, though Micky did watch Jimi play prior to Monterey in New York and the song was released on the album _Are You Experienced?_ and for the sake of the fic, Micky is confusing or just not mentioning where and how he heard the song (Both as referenced in [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49206629))
  * The Monkees are thanked on the sleeve of _Buffalo Springfield Again:_  
(Referenced [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49206629))
  * There was a folksinger in Greenwich who killed himself under the same circumstances as described in the fic. There were arguments including from big name stars as to what intervention should have taken place (if any at all). Peter also was in Greenwich while the other Monkees were in England around that time, though possibly [immediately before the tour dates in England](https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/articles/1967/06/16/peter-tork-past-present-and-future) rather than around a month as described in the story. This was (likely) anachronistic just for the ease of storytelling (Referenced [Chapter 9](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49481621)).
  * Micky in Hyde Park:  
  
Micky sang for a gathering group of kids at [Hyde Park](https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/articles/1967/08/monkees-monthly/micky-in-hyde-park) on July 4. According to this article, there was no trouble on the date and there was only some indication that the police _might_ come. In Davy Jones' autobiography, he states that police begged Micky do go inside, and that once Micky did try to go in, his clothes were ripped apart by the fans. For the sake of the story, I combined the two: Policemen are actively present and ask Micky to go inside, but the fans are respectful and don't rip or tear at him after he tries to leave. (Referenced [Chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49085576))
  * Additionally, some of the songs referenced as being sung by Micky are personal favorites of his, such as Johnny Mathis/Misty. This was specifically noted in the Goldmine article "Micky Dolenz: The Music That Changed My Life" published in 2010. I'm declining to post a link to this article because Malwarebytes didn't want me to open the page myself. The specific quote, however, is "If you listen to the new Carole King album, “King For a Day,” I’m sure you’ll hear a little bit of Johnny Mathis in there (with my style of singing). Just as I was old enough to listen to Top 40 radio, I was really influenced by Johnny, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Fats Domino. I don’t remember any particular album, but I do remember listening to “Misty” a lot." (Referenced [Chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49085576)) 
  * [Mike's interview with Ken Sharp in 1989](https://ditty-diego.tumblr.com/post/181025224691/neztalk)  
In particular two quotes:

**KS:** You saw them as a spectator in ’86 in Texas. What was that like?

**MN:** Well, that was real edifying. I’ve been asked about that before, too, and the one thing that was obvious to me was that Micky should’ve been in front all along. You know, he is so good. Why we stuck him back on the drums, that was one of the dumber things we ever did. Between David and Micky up front, I mean, you got two power hitters up here, you know? I just stand there, I don’t do anything. I go over and stand by my amp and play the guitar. And Peter probably could have been a better drummer than Micky because Peter’s a better musician than Micky. So I don’t know, maybe we should’ve given Micky a bass and let him play bass or something, but he was great. It was wonderful to see, too, I’ll tell you.

And

**KS:** Would you have veered into a country direction, as “Good Clean Fun” and ”Never Tell A Woman Yes” indicated for you?

**MN:** No, I don’t think so. Micky was always the voice and Davy was always the voice of the Monkees and they didn’t…Micky was never comfortable singing those country type songs. But you know Micky’s got a terrific pop voice.

**KS:** I’ve interviewed him, but he seems very insecure and underestimated himself about how good he is and what a great showman he is.

**MN:** Yeah. Yeah, he does. That’s one of the reasons he ended up sticking back there on drums. I was like, “Yeah, sure, I’ll play drums.” “Mick, get up, get out here.” (Referenced [Chapter 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49265930))

  * [Paul Zollo:](https://dododolenz.tumblr.com/post/188066790598/hornyliverpudlianputz-my-favorite-micky-story-i) “My favorite Micky story: I interviewed him and asked about the time that Hendrix opened for The Monkees - which he did several times. Micky watched Jimi would ingest some LSD exactly an hour before performing, and then go out and be absolutely amazing. Beyond amazing. So Micky reasoned it would help him too for a Monkees concert. He took LSD an hour before showtime. By then he was tripping so heavily that he not only could not play the drums, he said, he could not even figure out how to hold the sticks. He had to be quickly escorted off stage. They did the show without him. “Maybe not a great idea,” he said.” (To be referenced)
  * [Jimi Hendrix couldn't read sheet music](https://passionconnect.in/articleview/articleid/Famous-Musicians-Who-Couldn-t-Read-Music) (Referenced [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49206629))
  * [  
](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49206629)This photo is referenced/used as a basis for their stay in Florida. It's been attributed to Florida, but one person has also commented that it was his room in North Carolina. The date assigned it in Micky's book is July, 1967. So as far as its place in the fic goes, it is likely anachronistic by a couple of days. (Referenced [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49206629))
  * ["Maria, you forgot the Charlotte Observer connection! Observer columnist Kays Gary took advantage of the Monkees frenzy. He managed to get the sheets and pillowcases from their rooms at the Red Carpet Inn, had them cut up in one-inch squares, and sold them for, I think, $1.00 apiece. The funds went to benefit Holy Angels Nursery in Belmont."](http://retroclt.blogspot.com/2014/09/hey-hey-monkees-come-to-charlotte.html?m=1)
  * There was a personal story someone wrote about meeting Jimi Hendrix on The Monkees tour in North Carolina, where he was told to use the freight elevator to get to the roof pool to see The Monkees and instead saw a black man (who he identified as Jimi) in a speedo. Other dates he mentioned inspired the idea that there was a kid suggesting people go on the freight elevator to see The Monkees even prior to their actual arrival (as it sort of sounds like he references an event that occurred prior to them going on tour as happening two weeks into it) but this is entirely fictionalized. Since it's a personal blog I'm reluctant to link it, especially since he might track links. Regardless I used him as a reference for the details of the hotel and am very thankful. (Reference Chapter 10)
  * Per Vince Martin, he, Jimi, Peter, and Stills all played music together naked in the hotel in NC. 
  * _Jimi: They gave us the death spot on the show-- right before The Monkees.  
_and (on July 12):  
_Jimi: Finally, they agreed to let us go on first and things were much better. We got screams and good reaction, and some kids even rushed the stage. But we were not getting any billing-- all the posters for the show just screamed out-- MONKEES! Then some parents who brought their young kids complained that our act was vulgar. We decided it was just the wrong audience.   
  
_Liberties for chapter 13 were based off of the above quotes, taken from the book _Jimi Hendrix The Ultimate Experience_ by Johnny Black as well as PosterCentral's commentary regarding the marketing for the show which can be found on YouTube, titled 'Jimi Hendrix Concert Poster Opening for The Monkees 1967 Part 1'

# General References

  * According to Frederick Philip Lenz (aka Atmananda/Rama), sex could be used as a mystical way to transfer Kundalini. His teachings came more in the early 70s and beyond, but he is the one the idea Micky talks about is based on (Referenced [Chapter 9](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49481621)). However it should also be noted that when it comes to Micky, ideologies are only marginally fact-checked because he cherry-picks what he likes and more or less just gets the gist of things rather than leaning into specifics; in this case he is more into the idea of getting to getting to spiritually know someone through sex than Kundalini/chakras/etc.
  * Chicken Delight was a chain of restaurants which specialized in delivery and takeout, especially popular in the early-to-mid 60s, though by the late 60s they faced legal trouble. (Referenced Chapter 10)
  * [The Berkeley Riots](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1960s_Berkeley_protests) are referenced by Peter when he states that singing with a crowd is a good expression of freedom of speech. (Referenced [Chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/49085576))
  * Micky thinks about [The Sunset Strip Curfew Riots](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunset_Strip_curfew_riots) in response to Mike's joke. (Referenced Chapter 10) Opinions on these demonstrations can be found in their[ interviews after the show ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovY0juii39s). These interviews as a whole, including the one which states Micky's opinion on them are (Referenced [Chapter 3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466533/chapters/48770303))
  * was a real billboard. Earliest offhand attribute to it with a reliable date that I saw was 1966 (Referenced Chapter 10)
  * Micky has sung a parodied version of Sam Cooke's _Chain Gang_ replacing the words with 'gang bang', during one of the studio recordings. Shamelessly ripped off the gag. If anyone has the link to it I will add it here! (Referenced Chapter 10)
  * The 'double entendre' of Micky's joke about drinking beer: the comment is in reference to giving blowjobs; 'beer' becoming slang for semen around 1961. (Referenced Chapter 11)
  * The conversation between Peter, Micky, Stephen Stills etc. is somewhat loosely based on a case which occurred after this story takes place. The specifics are skirted around a bit just so as not to be anachronistic, but it is based on the case of Wheeler V. Goodman. Initially threatening arrest for cohabitation, police then arrested 18 (charged 12) people ranging from ages 16-20, ultimately being charged with 'vagrancy'. The court documents found 

> _The plaintiffs, twelve in number, are minors varying in age from sixteen to twenty years, and pursuant to the rules of procedure have brought this action through a court appointed next friend, Mrs. Raymond M. Wheeler. Several of them lived and all of them visited from time to time at the "hippie house" at 216 East Kingston Avenue in Charlotte. In dress, manner, length of hair, speech, slouch and activity most of the plaintiffs appear to fit the "hippie" image. In court some wore beards and love beads. The gait and stance of the boys was anything but military. Some of the girls wore long pants. None fit the Horatio Alger picture of a young *937 person setting out to "strive and succeed." None had much money. Most had no job. Some appeared truly to have "tuned out of the rat race." Their rented house was old, dirty, illfurnished and poorly maintained. There was conflict in the testimony as to the respective parts which the landlord, the plaintiffs and the police played in the condition of the house. Window panes were broken; the roof leaked; heat, when they had it, came from wood fires in the fireplaces up and downstairs. The plumbing froze interrupting the water supply to the toilet. Mattresses on the floor were the chief items of furniture. They had parties. Guests and visitors sometimes drank, sometimes smoked, sometimes played guitars and sometimes made other loud noises. Visitors were numerous — more numerous than "normal."  
  
_(Referenced Chapter 11)

  * The '49 Ford was a mess and the '50 Ford was marketed as being 'better in 50 ways'. One of the ways it needed improved was its latch system which was only used in this model.
  * Peter refers to the [Mould Manifesto Against Rationalism in Architecture ](http://www.hundertwasser.at/english/texts/philo_verschimmelungsmanifest.php) in Ch. 17.
  * Micky stated that on one occasion he tried taking acid before the show after he saw Jimi doing the same. Micky became too high to hold his drumsticks. Referenced Ch. 17.
  * The dialogue between Mike and Ernie Santosuosso is a mix of verbatim conversation from their interview in The Boston Globe and imagined dialogue by me.
  * \- A 14-year-old boy threw firecrackers at their show in Rochester, NY. It is also noted at this show that Micky tore out the knees of his pants during his performance of I Got a Woman (Chapter 21) 

[Playlist of songs that have some sort of inspiration for this story](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLzaik-psNb5HpfvQsxXgT7k1twGBMbW8B)


End file.
